


THE EMPEROR'S HUMILITY

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, M/M, Politics, Slavery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 79,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sidney has failed utterly in his victory; he will never again see Taylor or his mother or father. He wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and beat at the ground with his fists, but he knows-- from this moment forward, he cannot be himself. He is the Empire’s now, and a thousand eyes will watch his every move.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There are only two constants during Emperor Sidney's first year of reign: utter chaos and his Humility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> **See Chapter 3 (Appendix) for content warnings and appendix.** This story does include elements of **slavery, violence, and xenophobia** common to ancient civilizations; please check the content warnings if you have concerns about these aspects, especially in regards to slavery and consent. The content warnings and appendix do include minor spoilers.
> 
> Thank you to ofpucksandpens, who listened when I blurted out a three hundred word summary back in October, chatficced me into wanting to write it, and supported me through the next seventy-nine thousand words and probably an equal number of panicked messages about plot points. Thank you to onlylonelyglory and latorgator, my betas, who improved this fic immensely while repeatedly talking me down from self-inflicted insanity. Thank you to each and every one of my followers who liked or commented on or messaged me about the parts of this fic I posted on tumblr, and those who contributed to my random questions on twitter; without you, I definitely wouldn’t have gotten this far. It takes a village to raise a child, and let me tell you, this is one heck of a baby.

The late afternoon sun glistens across ripples of lake water and catches in the droplets of a splash as Sidney soaks Taylor and receives a screech in return. He laughs, sprinting in huge spraying strides through the shallows as she chases him, shouting, “You had better run, you coward!” He’s looking over his shoulder to ensure he is clear of her revenge when a second shriek sounds; he freezes, as does Taylor, and they turn to see their mother carefully brushing her now-dripping hair out of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry--” Sidney and Taylor say in tandem and stop when their mother holds up a deliberate hand. Her palla is soaked, falling to the ground with a wet slap, and the stola beneath is sprinkled with wet spots. Sidney is holding his breath in anticipation of her ire when she lunges forward, scooping her hands into the lake and directing an enormous splash up into Sidney's face. He shouts in surprise as Trina cackles, and he’s still rubbing water from his eyes when her hands land on his chest and push him into the water. “You’re next!” she crows at Taylor as Sidney accepts his defeat and lays in the lake and watches them, his mother’s stola hiked up about her knees as she chases Taylor about the perimeter of the lake.

His father clears his throat, and Sidney looks to the edge of the lake and exchanges a smile with him as Trina and Taylor chase each other about. Troy clear his throat again, and Sidney blinks--

The high noon sun pours through the windows of the basilica as Sidney's idle daydream vanishes. Troy is staring expectantly at Sidney, and he forms the best apologetic expression he can manage. “Your ruling, Sidney?” Troy asks pointedly, and Sidney's mind goes blank. Was this petition still between two landowners with a river boundary that has shifted its banks? Or was his mind absent, caught in the memories of yesterday throughout the ruling of that petition and the beginning of a new one? Arbiter Hornqvist is beginning to look impatient with his lack of an answer as well, resettling the folds of his red toga as his foot taps upon the dias. Sidney chews his lip to delay speaking, hesitant to bring shame to his parents with his foolish misattention; no matter how much Sidney despises the petty fights that are brought to the court, the House of Crosby takes their responsibility in supporting the arbitri seriously.

Sidney is saved by the racket of someone riding directly into the basilica. Shrieks and shouts echo through the hall as the horse and rider disturbs the market at the far end of the hall to approach the nave and the dias that Sidney, his parents, and the arbiter sit upon. “Lord Troy,” the messenger says, leaping down from his horse and stumbling, barely catching his footing. “I rode with the greatest haste; I bring you urgent word from the capital and from Dux Crosby.”

Troy stands, motioning to Arbiter Patric to issue the ruling, and Sidney tries to restrain his sigh of relief as Arbiter Patric rules on an inheritance left unevenly to two children. But his relief is short-lived; Troy hurries them from the basilica at the conclusion of the ruling back to the villa urbana. Taylor, a confused look on her face, joins them in the receiving room, where the messenger already lounges, in a clean tunic and pink from a rough scrubbing. A house slave presses a chalice into the messenger’s hand and he throws it back, wiping his mouth after emptying it. “The news is not fair, my lord,” he says grimly once he has caught his breath. “A terrible accident has befallen your brother; the healers say his arm is broken, and desperately so. Perhaps he will never grip a sword again in that hand.”

“But-- the emperor’s twenty-fifth year of rule ends but three days hence,” Troy says urgently. “The Empire’s Battle-- he cannot compete!”

The messenger nods as Sidney's stomach fills with sick dread. If Tobias cannot fight, then who shall stand for the House of Crosby? The odds are foul for those who enter the Empire’s Battle; the gods smile on those few who still draw breath by the end. Taylor’s lip trembles and she looks near to crying, so Sidney wraps his arm about her shoulders to pull her close and shush her as Troy paces impatiently about the receiving room. She presses her face into Sidney's toga and he wraps his arms around her back, rocking them gently, like the waves in the lake.

“Dux Crosby will return tomorrow,” the messenger says into the grim silence, “and surely he will have counsel to give.” It does little to dispel the despair that clouds the room. Tobias has a level head, a skill in finding solutions, and an instinct for rule-- hence Troy ceding the lordship of the house to his younger brother-- but not even Tobias can conjure up an agreeable answer for  this dilemma. Dinner is a silent affair: Taylor’s face red and tear-streaked, Sidney scowling at nothing and everything, Trina’s jaw jutted stubbornly forward but her eyes shuttered, and Troy staring only at his platter, hiding his expression.

The silence follows Sidney to his bed and stands between him and sleep that night. He worries at the possibilities as a dog worries at a bone: his father dead, his father injured, his father the emperor. Death is the worst, no doubt, but injury could be anything from a ritual cut accepting defeat to an arm or a leg gone. Winning the Empire means that the House of Crosby will be removed from court and barred from the capital or any communication with the emperor, distance imposed to protect the emperor from the weakness of family bonds. More so than his own emotions, Sidney worries for his mother and sister. They deserve their father’s protection and love, and Sidney does not know that he can protect a widow and a girl-child without his father’s guidance.

The more he thinks on it, the more resolute he is: Troy will not go to the arena. He will not fight to become Imperator Select. But Sidney does not know how to prevent Troy’s participation in the fight until, deep in the midst of the night, he suddenly _does_ \-- he must stand for the House of Crosby himself. He is young and healthy, so even a grievous injury will fare better on him than his father. To survive is his only aim, for then he can return to the villa urbana to be with his family and Dux Crosby in turn can return to the capital when he is well. Only then Sidney sleeps, perhaps not with a lightness in his heart, but at least with a steady resolve.

Sidney wakes with the birds the next morning and escapes from the house, stealing the end of a loaf and a cut of cheese and bundling it in his belt pouch. His favorite stallion is awake as well, snorting in the chill morning air, and Sidney whistles as he fetches a blanket and saddle. They sprint through the forest, dancing through the last tendrils of mist and between the fingers of the dawn. Sidney murmurs a prayer to Solus as he sits in a sunbeam and breaks his fast, turning his face up to the warmth of the light and closing his eyes as he asks for the blessing of the gods. He bids farewell to the trees, to the secret hiding places that Taylor so loves, to the rabbits and the boars that have provided such good sport, before mounting the stallion again and riding towards the villa. “I won’t be long,” he whispers as the stallion carries him out from under the limbs of the trees, and he stubbornly ignores the echo of doubt within his chest.

The villa is empty when he returns, the family clearly scattered to mull over their thoughts in peace. Sidney sits in the garden, whittling idly at a stick as he waits for Tobias to arrive. He finally does near noon, carried in a red-and-blue litter by four exhausted slaves. The family swarms in, Trina bringing the house slaves with her to half-carry Tobias into the receiving room, carefully avoiding the arm bound tightly against his side. His face is bone-white and a fine tremble runs through his body even as he relaxes into the couch, the family arraying themselves in couches and chairs about him.

“I trust you received my message,” Tobias says, wheezing slightly as he shifts. Troy nods shortly, and Tobias continues, “I apologize that I do not come with fairer news, brother. But the Empire waits on no man; the House must be represented in the arena. Imperator Lemieux has reached the close of his twenty-fifth year, and so the Houses must battle for the throne. We cannot afford to leave our crest empty; I was equal to the challenge, Troy, but now it must be you who faces it.”

“No,” Sidney says, and all turn to face him, surprise flooding the room and freezing the air. “Father does not have to face the challenge; I am well above the age of majority as well as a fine fighter. I will go and represent the House of Crosby.” Trina’s mouth drops open, and Troy’s expression clouds over.

“I will not permit this,” Troy says immediately, crossing his arms, but Tobias looks considering. “‘Tis naught but folly, brother, as there is no need for him to go. I will stand for the house in your place.” Tobias raises his hand and Troy falls silent, though a muscle works feverishly in his jaw.

“Did you not boast to me the prowess of your son at the sword, brother?” Tobias asks slowly, moving his upraised hand to stroke at his chin. “Did you not tell me that a captain of hundreds himself complimented him on his sparring?”

“A compliment relevant to his age,” Troy says desperately. “But he is still naught but a boy of eighteen--”

“A _man_ of eighteen,” Sidney interrupts, incensed.

“A man indeed, a title rightly owed and given,” Tobias says as Troy’s eyes grow wilder. “And he is full of good health to accompany his youth.” Tobias turns to address Sidney directly; Sidney sits up, raises his chin, and thinks like a lordling, like a man ready to be sent to battle. “Your offer is freely given, Sidney?”

“Yes,” Sidney says. _Freely given_ means naught when his choice will defend his family, but he suspects Tobias asks not for such reasons. His sympathetic gaze looks too deep within Sidney for it to be otherwise.

“When the gods sound the call to battle, they have already chosen who will hear the horn,” Tobias says, and Troy collapses onto a couch, face in his palms. “You shall go in my stead, Sidney. Prepare yourself tonight; you will ride tomorrow morning to the Emperor’s Arena to defend our house’s honor.”

“Thank you,” Sidney whispers, and his bones freeze as his father lets out a single, dry sob. Taylor stumbles to her feet and runs from the room, slamming the door behind her, and Trina stands to move towards Troy and comfort him. Sidney stands, numb, and sketches a bow towards Tobias before allowing his feet to lead him back into the garden. Now the second thoughts come to whisper doubt and fear, but it is too late-- he has affirmed his pledge to the gods, and their fury is not to be tested.

Sidney stares blankly at the colonnades in the garden until a gentle cough sounds behind him; he turns to see Troy standing unsteadily, hands clasped in supplication. “Father,” Sidney says.

“Son,” Troy returns formally. “May I sit with you?”

“I should hope that I will always welcome the opportunity to hear your wisdom,” Sidney says. “And I hope that-- I hope I have not committed a dishonor against you in my actions. I think only of my family first, as you have taught me.”

“Then surely you understand my pain as my family volunteers for the burden that I must bear,” Troy says, dropping heavily onto the bench next to Sidney. “Sidney, you should not do this.”

“I see no alternative,” Sidney says, stubborn even as he trembles. “Do you?”

Troy sighs and a silence falls between them, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the inquisitive chirps of birds. His chin tips and he stares meditatively down at his hands as he says, “If you know nothing else, know this-- regardless of how the day goes, your name will always be remembered in the house shrine. The honor you give the name of Crosby is not a light gift. I… I thank you.”

Sidney draws in a breath that crackles in his lungs and lets it stutter out. There is nothing for him to say; the last Crosby to be added to the house shrine was his great-grandfather, a captain of hundreds that brought great victories to the Empire and was honored in triumphal marches. He grips his fists together, overcome, before Troy says abruptly, “Your sister and mother are at the lake. They wish to speak to you as well.”

Sidney firmly presses his lips together to suppress the shout that fights to burst forth, the truth so great it wishes to erupt: _Please, father. I am afraid. I am sure that I cannot do this, even for them, even for you_. “I will go to them,” Sidney chokes out, and Troy places his hand gently upon Sidney's knee, squeezing once before letting go and departing.

Taylor is running about the shallows when Sidney walks down to the lake, Trina watching her with her hand covering her mouth. Taylor stops when she sees Sidney, and he hurries to her side. “Taylor, sister, it will all be as the gods wish,” he says, but the frown upon her face doesn’t move.

“What if you die?” Taylor asks, and Sidney is suddenly reminded that she is but a child, no matter how precocious. He grasps her hand and pulls her close, wrapping his arms about her, and she clings desperately back. Their tunics hang heavy below their knees, wetted by the gentle sway of the lake water, but they pay the chill of cold cloth no heed.

“Surprisingly, I would prefer that I did not perish,” Sidney says, and Taylor laughs wetly.

“And what if you win?” she whispers. “I heard-- I heard they kill the family of the emperor, to prevent him from balancing his family with the Empire.”

“Where do you hear these things?” Sidney asks her, gently tugging at a lock of her hair. “I haven’t heard such lies in all my life. I surely won’t win, but even if I did, you and mother and father would be protected.”

“But we’d never see you again,” Taylor says as she looks up at him, eyes round. “You would be the nearest thing to dead to us, Sidney.”

“Then clearly the only solution is that I will survive, and return to you,” Sidney says, crouching down and sinking into the water to look at her directly, smiling encouragingly

“You swear that you will come back?” she asks, voice shaky again with tears, and Sidney smiles, cupping his palm around the trembling edge of her smile, and he says, “I swear.”

“You won’t be gone for long?” Taylor presses.

“I will go to the city, make such a fool of myself in the arena as to have stories for you for days, and come home,” Sidney says. “As slowly as I shall drag my feet as I ride away from here, I will hurry so much greater on my return.”

Taylor sniffles, wrinkling her nose, and nods decisively. “This is acceptable,” she says. “After all, you still must teach me how to jump the stallion. You won’t go back on your word twice over.”

“Of course not,” he assures her, and she runs off, splashing through the water as she chases fish.

He turns to Trina, waiting on the shore with her arms wrapped tight around herself. Sidney kneels and takes her hand between his, looking up at her as he did as a child. “I’m sorry,” he says, and her expression crumples, destroyed in an instant.

“Never apologize for the best that you are,” she says fiercely. “Oh, my little Sidney, you’ve grown so quickly and so well. The gods clearly have plans for you; I can only hope they will be filled with mercy.”

“I will return, mother,” Sidney says desperately, but she shakes her head as she fights the unhappy twist of her mouth, the wetness of her eyes.

“I am not as innocent as your sister, Sidney. I know the battle you face; I remember well the occasion of Imperator Lemieux winning the arena.” Graven in the lines of her face is her worry; Sidney's grandfather was killed in that battle, his arm severed and his lifeblood drained onto the ground before a healer could attend to him.

“I love you, mother,” Sidney says, because it is all that matters, it is the only promise he can give with all his heart, and Trina collapses down onto him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she cries.

*     *     *

Every citizen of the Empire has heard of the Via Stanley: down its length the Imperators and Valors and their trusted captains take their triumphal marches. Sidney tries not to gawk like the simplest of countrified citizens as his stallion picks its way around the carts and citizens teeming along the road. There is the mighty arch, detailing Imperator Stanley’s greatest victories; there is the palace of the emperor and the temples of the Greater Mercies, looming over the street and casting their chill shadows across the common people.

At the far end of the victory road is the Emperor’s Arena. Today, under the golden light of the rising sun, the citizens gather for the honor to see the Imperator Select wrest his victory from the grasp of the Hundred Houses. He directs the stallion around the crowd, finding the entrance that Tobias told him of: _to the rear of the Arena, beneath a banner with the sigil of War, waits a slave._

There is the sigil and the slave, and Sidney dismounts and passes the stallion off to another before dutifully reciting, “I am the sacrifice of the House of Crosby. I give my lifeblood and life-breath to the Empire, and today I shall grasp my destiny.”

“Welcome, son of the House of Crosby,” the slave says. “Your horse will be returned to your family by a messenger bringing tidings of the day. Enter the arena: be cleansed, be blessed, be ready.”

The darkness within the tunnel is shocking enough that Sidney must pause to blink until detail swims before his eyes. There is a path laid upon the ground, a slim line of red stone, and he follows it to a brighter reception room guarding the splashes of a public bathhouse. Sidney strips off his tunic and loincloth under the watchful eyes of the attending slave and enters the bathing chamber. There are maybe thirty men ranging in age from sixteen-- uncertainty hidden deep within their eyes, just barely men-- to a grizzled veteran of perhaps fifty, soaked in the surety of battle.

Sidney takes a corner and scrubs himself down quietly; judging by the gossip about him, many of the sacrifices are familiar with each other, and for the first time, Sidney curses his country upbringing. These men know each other, know how they fight, know how they think. What chance does Sidney have against them to live?

“Yours is a new face, sacrifice,” a voice says lowly from behind Sidney and he turns about quickly, scrubbing cloth held aloft as a shield. The speaker, a tall man with soft eyes and a playful smile, holds his hands out in a gesture of peace. “I mean no harm! I only find myself consumed with curiosity-- it is rare to find a member of the Hundred Houses that does not take advantage of the capital.”

“I am of the House of Crosby,” Sidney says warily, withdrawing the cloth. “And yourself?”

“Dux Dupuis,” the man says, moving up beside Sidney to soak his own cloth in the basin Sidney was using. “Father of three and reluctant sacrifice; my oldest son has but ten years, and the rest of the House resides in the villa rustica, with no interest in taking their chance at winning the Empire.”

“To name yourself a reluctant sacrifice is to invite the wrath of Iras,” Sidney says piously, dipping his own cloth into the water and scrubbing at his arms.

“The gods find more displeasure in lies than painful truths,” Dux Dupuis counters. “All but one shall be struck down today; if my children grow up without a father, at least he died with honesty.” Sidney frowns as he bends to scrub his legs, bereft of an answer. Would his father speak so to the others, if he stood as sacrifice? Would he mourn his childrens’ loss of their father even before it had occurred? “And there we see the favored son,” Dux Dupuis says with relish, jostling Sidney from his reverie.

“Where?” Sidney asks, craning his neck as he looks about the assembled men.

“There, by the entrance, with light eyes and hair; he is of the House of Brown, and the betting favors him as our future emperor.”

“He does not have the look of a warrior,” Sidney says doubtfully and Dux Dupuis huffs a laugh.

“Already he has won against you, for you have underestimated him,” he chides. “He is thin of limb, true, but he has a fine hand with the sword and a voracious spirit.”

“Only the arena will tell if that is enough,” Sidney says. Any further conversation dies as a slave enters and politely but firmly escorts them to the soaking baths. He is split from Dux Dupuis and finds himself tucked between two rambunctious youths crowing about their chariot racing bets of the last weeks. Their energy is too much against the threat of the day, and Sidney slides from the bath quickly, proceeding to the drying rooms.

Scratchy towels are followed by tables, layered in loincloths and plain brown tunics, simple rope belts and rough leather sandals. Sidney dresses under the watchful eye of a slave who pats him down after he is clothed to ensure he has not taken the will of the gods into his own hands.

The next room is a humble temple, hewn stone benches lined up before the red banner bearing Iras’ symbol. Despite the fullness of the room, Sidney's every step echos in the silence, each man deep in contemplation. Sidney settles in the first seat he sees, bowing his head as he beseeches the gods to leave him his life. For comfort, he begins reciting his family’s morning prayer in the quiet of his mind--

_Trina keeps a careful distance from Sidney, as does the rest of the family, while they pray together before the house shrine, and Sidney stubbornly does not think_ for the last time _. Sidney's lips move along with the prayer by rote, thanking the gods for their blessings, but he stumbles to a halt with the rest as Tobias adds during the prayer to Iras, “We thank the God of War for his favor he has shown to the son of the house. Dress with him in battle today; burn in his blood with the fires of victory, and bring the world to their knees before his prowess.”_

_The invocation to Paxius to warm their hearth and home cannot pass Sidney's lips, as he fights with the sudden bile rising in his stomach. He rejoins the prayer in time for honoring the great defenders of the House, and again must stop as Troy says, “and upon this day, Sidney Crosby, son of the house, finds his place among this shrine. The honor he does for this House shall be remembered by the children of the House of Crosby for all days.”_

Sidney shakes his head to banish the memory; instead, he thinks of Taylor and her quick wit and her fine hand at hunting. Trina and her quiet humor and soothing voice. Troy and his watchful eyes and his proud expression. He etches each face deep into his mind, holds every memory close to his heart. This is what he fights for; he will protect them with his sacrifice, and he will return to them as he promised.

A gong sounds; the assembled men sit up straight, some clearly startled from their reverie, as a clericus of Iras begins to speak from the podium. “Lord Iras, Father of War, we summon thee! Just as the Hundred Houses warred and Stanley, Magnus Imperator, rose victorious, these men shall war again, until the Imperator Select, he who is blessed by your hand, takes his victory. These sacrifices give their blood and breath to prove their worth. Take from their flesh your toll, and give in equal measure your favor to the Empire. One shall stand above all-- he brings promise of the Empire’s might, and so he must show his might within the arena. Feast in the war of this day, for it is made for you, and slake your thirst until five-and-twenty years have passed.”

The sacrifices bow their heads as one, and Sidney drives his thumb deep within the opposite palm in supplication as they chant the final invocation together.

“Lord Iras, son of Solus, lend me your strength. Burn my blood with the fire of victory; burn my bones with the strength of the berserker. Bring death to my enemies and everlasting life to my allies. My sword is your right hand, my shield your left. Protect me not from battle but from fear, and expose me to the light of triumph. By your will, Lord Iras, we will vanquish our enemies and take our victory.”

Sidney stands, the world feeling curiously distant as he follows the red-haired man beside him to receive his sword and shield from a slave and step blinking out into the midday sun. He is nearly deafened by the roar of the crowd above him in the arena, and he comes to a halt just outside the entryway in his shock at the noise. He stares up at the risers, the teeming masses of humanity, and feels like nothing more than the sheltered country cousin that he is. A lord bumps into his back, muttering a brief apology, and Sidney forces his feet to move, turning his gaze to the ground to find his family’s insignia. A burst of red-and-blue amongst the dust catches Sidney’s eyes, and he stands above the lily and sword of the House of Crosby and thinks, ” _You swear that you will come back?” “I swear.”_

As the other sacrifices disperse and settle above their crests, Sidney notes that fifteen spots are left empty; five houses are without a man of age to fight, and the Ten Traitors’ permanently blood-red insignias shine bright in the sun without a fighter permitted to stand above. Eighty-five fighters arrange themselves on the other eighty-five insignias, ready to represent their house and be the lone standing warrior to win the glory of the Empire.

The House of Crosby has a less favorable position in the arena, perhaps a third of the way from the center, too far from the wall to offer instant protection. Sidney can see the whites of the eyes of the men around him as they try and seek out the quickest route to the safety of the edges where the favored houses cluster. It’s difficult to think, adrenaline jumping through his bones as the crowd is calling out and already drinking to the death to come.

The inescapable roar of thousands lulls, heralding the Sanctus of Iras as he emerges from the shaded Imperial Pavilion. His blessing is too faint to hear, voice whipped away by the wind, and sweat begins to trickle down Sidney's back as he tenses in anticipation. The final shouted, “Vanquish our enemies! Take our victory!” floats across the arena, followed by the toll of the Imperial Bell.

Eighty-five bodies leap into action. Sidney spies an opening between the Dux Dupuis and some unlucky lordling caught up with the favored Dux Brown-- who is as Dux Dupuis said, merciless and with as fine a hand at the sword as any man could ask-- and his legs carry him there with the speed of the gods as Dux Dupuis warily eyes him. Sidney scurries to place his back to the wall and then turns to the dux with his hands spread, asking for peace.

“As you said, there’s little happiness for you in this ring, my lord,” Sidney says, and Dux Dupuis’ eyebrows rise before he nods. “Give me the honor of drawing blood, and your children will not grow up without a father.” Dux Dupuis regards Sidney suspiciously for a moment before nodding and offering his left hand. Sidney takes it with slow, exaggerated movements that contrast sharply with the shouts of pain and death all about them and draws his blade lightly across Dux Dupuis’ palm, a perfect crimson line falling in its path.

The fragile peace around them is broken as a berserker looms large in the corner of Sidney's eye, face is so twisted with his screams that Sidney cannot even begin to recognize him. Sidney drops Dux Dupuis’ hand to pivot and engage, acting on instinct and years of training; the man is well into his blood-rage and clearly exhausted, and when his blade narrowly misses Sidney's neck, Sidney runs him through with a snarl. The attacker collapses, and Sidney understands for the first time what it is like to know that a man lying on the ground and gasping with bubbling breaths is about to die because of him. He came to the capital resolute that he would leave again; he hadn’t considered at all the price he would pay in the arena in order to do so. He feels suddenly nauseous and very nearly bends over to vomit from his disgust at what he has just done, but the sounds of battle come rushing back into his ears, and while the melee is still focused elsewhere, there’s little time before it bites at Sidney again.

“Crosby, are you alright?” Dux Dupuis asks, and Sidney focuses, straightening to see Dux Dupuis’ concerned expression. He’s struck with a thought, and he says, inspired, “Lie down, Dux Dupuis,” and Dux Dupuis shrugs, lowering himself carefully to the ground and stretching out. “Forgive me.” Sidney grabs the berserker, tugs and throws him until he’s resting across Dux Dupuis’ chest, until it looks like two bodies with commingled life-blood, the only protection that Sidney can offer him.

“Hail,” Dux Dupuis says, breathy under the weight of death above him, and Sidney has no time to acknowledge or understand before he’s engaging two more fighters that are clearly working in an alliance. The field narrows around him as he tucks himself against the wall and fends off their strikes, and the only thing to think of is the next step, the next stroke, the next spray of blood. All he can hear is Taylor’s voice and his response-- ” _You swear that you will come back?” “I swear.”_ \-- and he does what he must to uphold his promise.

Faces pass before him, sometimes as groups but more frequently as blood-splattered individuals as Sidney's blade grows heavier in his hand. Some strike again and again until forced to fall and never rise, others lay willingly upon the red ground and murmur, “hail, hail, hail,” as Sidney passes by to _survive_.

Finally a moment of stillness comes, but Sidney cannot relax and whirls around, expecting the enemy to be behind. The hiss and jeer of the crowd changes as he turns, looking for an opponent, and a long moment passes before he hears, shouted from the voice of thousands, “Hail! Hail! Hail!”

_Hail._ All hail the emperor. Sidney turns, slowly, and faces the Imperial Pavilion. He can see, faintly, Imperator Lemieux, standing proud. His lips curve-- _hail_ \-- and he bows his head to Sidney.

_Hail_.

Sidney sways where he stands, willing his knees not to shake as he hefts his sword to find a better grip within his sweating palm. His heart races as his eyes search the arena again and again, unwilling to believe the acknowledgement of the emperor, but every other man is prone upon the ground either bleeding in forfeit, too injured to stand, or already in the arms of death. No further challenger awaits; he has grasped a victory wrung from the bodies that lay in the dirt and claimed it for his own through nothing more than accident.

_"You swear that you will come back?” “I swear.”_

A sob bubbles up from deep within Sidney, terror and fury and misery mixing in his heart as he keens long and low under the chants of the crowd. He has failed utterly in his victory; he will never again see Taylor or his mother or father. He wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and beat at the dirt with his fists, but he knows-- from this moment forward, he cannot be himself. He is the Empire’s now, and a thousand eyes will watch his every move. Instead, he plants his feet, swallows his cry of despair, and flattens his mouth into a firm line as an honor guard approaches across the arena.

They pause a respectful distance away and bow before one says, “Your Imperial Highness, if you will come with us?” Sidney drops his sword and buckler, arms suddenly numb as _Your Imperial Highness_ echos in his ears, and one of the squadron swoops down to scoop up the weapons before they escort him from the battleground with a callous disregard for the cries of pain and the shuffle of healers around them.

As the cool darkness of the entrance tunnel embraces them, Sidney must stop and lean against the wall with his hands braced upon his knees. His escort arranges themselves in a semicircle around him, facing outward with their hands on their weapons. He gasps for breath, desperate for his legs to cease shaking and the world to cease spinning. Closing his eyes brings no relief; instead the shouts of the crowd echo within his ears, driving the thrumming fear within him, rising up in an inescapable tide as the thrill of battle leaves him. Over it he hears Taylor’s shaking voice: _“You swear that you will come back?”_ _I’m sorry_ , he mouths, to her, to himself, to no one.

Too little time passes before a guard says, “Your Imperial Highness, we must keep moving. The Empire awaits.”

“I hope the Empire has heated a bath, otherwise I have no interest,” Sidney says, still dazed by his mistake, and he swears there’s the tiniest hint of a laugh in response.

“All of your needs will be tended to, Your Imperial Highness,” is the implacable answer, and Sidney sighs and levers himself to his feet. At the end of the tunnel waits a litter, ornately decorated and attended to by four beautiful slaves, every inch of visible skin-- which is everything, save that hidden beneath a snowy cotton loincloth apiece--  oiled and gleaming as their muscles flex in the sun. Sidney feels faint again; if this is how the emperor’s labor slaves look, he fears to know the pleasure slaves.

Much as the arena was a blur of violence, this too is a blur, but of riches and bowing and murmurs of “Your Imperial Highness” and a hundred new faces directing him through a baffling maze of halls. Sidney is too exhausted to do much else than follow his guard dumbly until finally he is ushered into a set of private rooms, a receiving room followed by a bedroom and then, blessedly, a bathing room. The long wall opposite the door is dominated by an elaborate window, hundreds of fragments of precious glass arranged together to form the sigil of Solus. Beneath it lies three deep baths, only one of which is filled with steaming water with a woman in a rich, floating stola standing next to it.

“Your Imperial Highness,” she says as she genuflects. “I am the overseer of your chambers-- but there is little time for introductions before you are crowned as emperor. Please, I will help you prepare for the ceremony so that Imperator Lemieux may depart before sundown.” The words barely register; Sidney is already tugging at his tunic, desperate to sink into the water and wash away the dust and blood and memories of the arena. His bliss at entering the water is cut short by the noblewomen, who insists on briskly scrubbing him from head to toe before attempting to bodily drag him from the water far before he is ready to be done soaking. Sidney stands reluctantly as the noblewoman clucks at him, blushing as she dries his skin and deftly ties a loincloth about his waist. A healer and two more attendants appear with clothes bundled in their arms, and his wounds are tended to before the three dress him as if he were a child’s doll, moving his limbs to their wishes until he is clothed in a white tunic and draped in a toga of Imperial Gold.

The attendants rush him out the door, one scurrying alongside him on her toes so that she may arrange his hair to her liking, and the honor guard returns to march Sidney down yet more halls. The guard to his left holds the shield from the arena, Sidney notices, and to his right is the sword, still shining with wet blood. Even as he looks clearly at the evidence of the arena, it seems already a distant memory; Sidney floats as though in a dream as he is hurried down the corridor. The guards are eerily silent, the halls eerily empty, and Sidney drives his thumbnail into his palm until pain sparks, short and bright, assuring himself that he is awake and not trapped in slumber.

The Hall of State is equally silent though teeming with people as Sidney enters, hundreds of faces turning with mute expectation as the massive Divinity Doors creak open before him. He steps through alone, fighting the twitch of his skin and the instinct to hide from the scrutiny, instead raising his chin and stepping forward. In some ways, this moment holds far more terror than the arena. Here he must become the emperor, and yet he has no knowledge of this ceremony or of the life to come after it. Every step is a prayer to the gods: _Continue your favor, protect my family, guide my hand that I do not bring misfortune upon us all_. Imperator Lemieux waits for Sidney at the far end of the hall, backed by five somber men and a slave with close-cropped hair and an unusually defiant expression chained to the wall by a heavy iron collar. Sidney feels faint from heat and pressure as he comes to a halt before the emperor.

“His Imperial Highness, the Imperator Select, Sidney of the House Crosby,” Imperator Lemieux announces above Sidney's head, pausing at the ripple of acknowledgement from the assembly. He turns his eyes down to meet Sidney's, a surprising kindness lined in his face under the formal expression. Sidney shifts uncomfortably as the emperor speaks directly to him, light eyes unwavering from Sidney's face, though his voice is loud enough for all the hall to hear. “Imperator Select, the gods have placed their favor upon you on the battlefield today, and forevermore will you join them in the halls of divinity. You have been chosen as every emperor was, back to First Magnus Imperator Stanley; he stood above the warring tribes, victorious not through unrestrained passion but through mindful balance of emotion. As he knew so well, no god exists alone, for each rules as one half of a perfect balance, and so must man exist with balance, to not upset the heavenly order. With anger comes peace; with joy comes sadness; with victory comes loss.” Sidney's heart thuds as he thinks, _Today I am given a victory unasked for, a loss too great for such paltry reward_ \-- but quickly refocuses on Imperator Lemieux’s words, drawing a slow, deep breath and blinking away the mist in his eyes.

“Thusly the Empire was shaped by Magnus Imperator Stanley. He united those who fought for the passion of battle and marshalled them, taught them the joy of balance over the wild excess of barbarian life. He and his trusted council formed the Empire around the three great pillars: Citizen, Empire, and Emperor.

“The Citizens are the living body of the Empire, working each day to ensure the tiny victories of the household. Their hands are roughened by their diligence at their labor, but their hearts are uplifted by their idealism and belief in the future. The Empire rises above, guiding the Citizens to such a future. From the gods comes their agents of mercy, and from the Hundred Houses comes caution, for mercy opens the Empire to danger, and caution closes that door. The emperor guides us all, the divine given human form, a gift to the Empire directly from the gods. He must balance the valor to push the Empire to greater heights with the humility to understand where his divinity ends.” Imperator Lemieux pauses to take a deep breath, flashing a tiny smile at Sidney before continuing.

“Imperator Select, you have been touched by the gods and so you accepted your divinity today through your victory in the arena. Take now from your supplicants the Blessing of the Three Balances, so that you may always act with your heart and soul in the peace of balance.”

Imperator Lemieux steps aside as one of the five men behind him comes forward, an old man wearing a white tunic banded with red and a red toga, just as Arbiter Hornqvist did, though his face holds not the gentle humor of Patric but a haughty seriousness. Sidney feels judged as he never was by Arbiter Patric as the man says, “The Citizens of the Empire wish for you Idealism; may you measure the true justice of the world with clear eyes and an unfettered heart.” He reaches out, grasping Sidney's right hand so that he may bend over it and kiss it.

The next to step forward is more youthful, white tunic banded with green covered by a matching green toga. It’s odd to see the clothes unstained by dirt, unmarked by toil-- the diligentes that Sidney often saw had togas that were more brown than green, and the cleanliness is very nearly unsettling. “The Citizens of the Empire wish for you Diligence; may you relish the burn of labor and know that nothing comes without great effort.” His benediction is a kiss upon Sidney's left hand, before he too steps back.

Dux-- no, _Cautio_ Dupuis steps near, palm bandaged, now dressed in a white toga with a single Imperial Gold band around the hem of his white tunic rather than the plain brown of the arena. His lips curve with the barest quirk as he approaches, and Sidney struggles to keep his face clear of emotion as Cautio Dupuis comes to a halt before him. His heart overflows with relief, though, and Cautio Dupuis gives a tiny nod in acknowledgement to the signs of it that must spill into Sidney's expression. “The Empire wishes for you Caution; may you act with care to preserve that which brought grace and prosperity, and prevent that which brings dishonor and hunger.” He leans forward, placing his wrapped left hand upon Sidney's forehead, and Sidney swallows at the soft touch.

A priest approaches, toga hooded about his head in their manner; the sky-blue fabric marks him as a devotee of Solus, while the Imperial Gold band on his tunic marks him as a clemens rather than a mere sanctus. His expression is gentle, calm with the distance of the gods as he says, “The Empire wishes for you clemency; may you empathize with the pain of the damned and grant your citizens the kindness of the gods.” He places his palm upon Sidney's heart before backing away.

The last to move is a man in a white toga with double bands of Imperial Gold on his tunic. His expression is neutral except for his pursed mouth and distant eyes, and Sidney is sharply reminded of the never-ceasing wars of the Empire and the rumors of the army’s struggle in the east. He quietly says, “The emperors who came before wish for you Valor; may you stand undefeated by your enemies.” Unlike the others, he steps not towards Sidney to give a benediction but towards the guards standing to Sidney's left. A guard solemnly hands him Sidney's sword from the arena, and the Valor removes the rusty sword hanging from the throne behind Imperator Lemieux to place Sidney's there. The other he returns to the emperor with a deep bow that is acknowledged by Imperator Lemieux by a tiny nod.

All of the men on the dias have given Sidney the blessing of their balance, yet the Emperor’s Balance is not complete. Sidney swallows heavily as he fights the twist of his stomach. To balance with valor he must suffer humility, and every citizen in the Empire had heard the rumors of Imperator Lemieux’s first Humility. He cannot help but wonder what future his Humility holds for him; will he fail as Imperator Lemieux did? Or will he strike the proper balance?

Chains rattle behind Sidney as someone mounts the steps of the dias, and he slowly turns with the encouragement of Imperator Lemieux’s hand. A slave stands there, collared and chained with his arms behind his back, escorted by four stern-faced guards. From beside him, Imperator Lemieux says, “The emperors who came before wish for you Humility; may you know the price of your victory.” His hand lands on Sidney's back, and he pushes Sidney forward, whispering, “Give him your benediction.”

Sidney is chilled by the blank, disaffected stare of the slave as he approaches. The slave is so tall that Sidney must remain on the upper step to stand even with him, leaning over the empty space awkwardly to place his benediction-- a kiss-- upon the slave’s brow. Their eyes meet briefly as Sidney tips back, the Humility’s gaze as flat as the line of his lips. Sidney steps back, overcome with relief that the slave does not lunge forward to attempt to kill him; he can live with the silent hatred of a slave.

Sidney turns to see Imperator Lemieux settle the buckler from the arena upon the throne, again taking his own cracking and warped buckler back. With the emperor armed as the combatants were, suddenly all Sidney can focus on is the ache of his feet, the burn of his sword arm, the sharp memories of the screams and spraying blood of the arena.

Imperator Lemieux intones, “The will of the gods brings you the Balances of the Citizens, the Empire, and the emperor. The gods have gifted to you those who serve in honor of those Balances.” Exhaustion rises up again within Sidney, the hall growing hazy as Imperator Lemieux continues in the ceremony. Finally, Imperator Lemieux pushes on his shoulder and Sidney kneels, accepting his diadem and completing the direct line of coronations from one emperor to the next, back to the founding of the Empire. As Imperator Lemieux settles the band of gold on his head, Sidney's ears fill with the rattle of the chains on his Humility. Now Sidney is as chained as the slave, invisibly but just as tightly.

The crowd in the hall rises, shouting and clapping as Sidney turns and is presented as their emperor for the first time. Imperator Lemieux announces over the din, “His Imperial Majesty, the Imperator Crosby the First!” and every word binds him tighter. Sidney has been given to the Empire now, just as his Humility was given to him, and truth be told-- he’d rather be the one with the chains for all to see, for then all would understand his sacrifice. Sidney looks at the celebrating faces and aches as he watches polite disinterest mix with the open grief of those who lost family in the ring and the hidden pain of those who survived and failed.

Imperator Lemieux raises his sword and the people settle. “As Imperator Crosby has been named in the tradition of Magus Imperator Stanley, so must I also follow in the Magnus Imperator’s footsteps. For twenty-five years of service, loyal and true, I take my leave of the Empire to the Garden of the Gods, to take my earthly reward. I leave you, my people, my Empire, in Imperator Crosby’s capable hands.”

Sidney feels anything but capable as cheering fills the hall and Lemieux precedes Sidney through the Divinity Doors, ready to be whisked off into the caravan that will take him to The Garden of the Gods. Before he goes, though, he grasps Sidney's arm and leans in. “It is not an easy life, young emperor,” he says. “But find your allies, hold truth in your heart, and--” he hesitates, leaning further in and whispering, “Beware your Humility.” Sidney opens his mouth, ready to beg for guidance, for friendship, for relief from this new terrible duty, but Lemieux merely gives his arm a gentle shake and departs. Sidney is whisked off just as quickly, but instead to a banquet, where he spends what feels like hours gripping at the cushions of a couch, smiling anemically, and wishing for relief. Conversation is beyond him; he is soaked in exhaustion and barely manages polite nods in response to the many introductions and well-wishes and compliments about his battle process that deluge upon him.

The only relief he gets is stolen on the edges of a moment. As yet another course of dinner is served, and yet another group of new lords is led to his table, Sidney spies in the corner the slave named as his Humility. Sidney studies him for a moment now that he is not drowning under ceremony; now Sidney sees that he is tall but also lanky, arms and legs skinny where they stick out from the edges of his tunic. He has dark hair and dark eyes, skin more olive than Sidney's in color but not much darker. The slave’s neutral expression brings a new youth to his face in contrast to his scowl of earlier, and Sidney is shocked to realize that the slave must be no more than a year or two older than himself. Quicker than thought, the slave’s eyes meet his, and Sidney mindlessly offers a smile. It dies quickly as he realizes his foolishness, but before he looks away a tiny twitch crosses the slave’s face, pushing dimples into his cheeks as the corner of his lips tilt upwards.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” a brash voice sounds out from his side. “May I introduce myself? I am Dux Hall, the Master of Slaves for your household.” The boy is one Sidney faintly remembers from the battlefield, his golden hair gleaming in the sun through the dust, but he appears mostly unharmed.

“Pleasure,” Sidney says shortly, but Dux Hall strikes forth with cheerful disregard for his rudeness.

“I am but your loyal servant, Your Imperial Majesty, and so I hope I am not too forward, but I wish to know your desires for this night of your victory. We have a fine selection of pleasure slaves, Your Imperial Majesty, ready to pay their respects and give their service to you--”

“No!” Sidney yelps, lethargy overcome with the flood of embarrassment, and Dux Hall gives him an injured look. “Please, Dux Hall, excuse me,” Sidney amends hastily. “But I find myself wearied by battle. Even if I were not, I must serve the Empire before I serve my own needs.”

“As Your Imperial Majesty desires,” Dux Hall says. “But do not hesitate to inform me of your needs, Your Imperial Majesty, for I shall _leap_ at the opportunity to ensure your comfort and pleasure!”

“Of course,” Sidney says faintly in the face of such enthusiasm in meeting his-- _needs_ , sending his thanks to the gods as dessert arrives and Dux Hall is shuffled away with the rest of his cohort. Sidney cannot recall the final course, his departure from the hall, or the path to his rooms, just the soft embrace of his mattress as he falls into blissful, long-awaited sleep.

*     *     *

The sweet darkness of rest is interrupted by the gentle calling of, “Your Imperial Majesty, it is time for the Ceremony of the Sun.” He groans, hoping to send away whoever stirs him from his rest, and he is shocked to find he cannot. When he sits up, head cradled in his hands as his bodies thrum with the aches left over from battle, the attendant that roused him says, “Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, but I do not believe we were fully introduced yesterday. I am Ducissa Luongo, and I will keep your chambers. Please let myself or one of my staff know at any time if there is aught we can do to serve you.”

“Very well,” Sidney says groggily, too asleep to find his manners.

Thankfully, the ducissa seems to understand his exhaustion, for she does not comment on his rudeness but rather says, “We shall go to prepare your morning bath, Your Imperial Majesty. There will be food brought to you then to break your fast.” Sidney waves a hand to dismiss her, rolling to his feet with a groan and dragging his feet as he moves towards the house shrine at the far end of the room. The shrine painting quite unsurprisingly depicts Magnus Imperator Stanley receiving the blessings of the gods upon his coronation, but the shelf for god-figures is upsettingly empty. Sidney prays regardless, though half his mind contemplates which figures he wishes to add to the shrine. Bitterness roils in his stomach as he avoids thinking of the last morning prayers he participated in, the addition of his name to the honored relatives.

After his prayer is complete, Sidney revisits the spectacular bathing chamber of yesterday, and he is now able to luxuriate in the bath where it sits under the great window, the light-spears of Solus striking through the glass to soak into his skin. He picks at the promised platter of food as the attendants scrub him, and submits again to their attentions as they dress him and prepare him for his day.

He knows not how an emperor fills his time; presumably there are hundreds vying for his attentions throughout the day. How does he choose who to meet? How does he allocate his time? He wishes for nothing more but to plunder the depths of the palace library and hide in his receiving room, until his soul no longer burns with the distance between _home_ and _here_.

Sidney is given an answer to his questions, at least for today, when a slave wearing the armband of a messenger enters as his attendants dry him off. “Your Imperial Majesty, Cautio Dupuis has requested an audience with you this morning,” the slave says, and Sidney snatches at the towel that the attendant is running over his body to shield his nakedness with it.

“Very well,” he says haughtily, clutching the towel about his waist. “Inform him that I will take an audience with him after my morning ablutions.” The attendant tugs back the towel, but already the messenger has turned to leave, so Sidney's embarrassment is limited only to those that witnessed it yesterday as well. As before, the attendants tie a loincloth around his waist before tugging a tunic over his head; unlike yesterday, though, this tunic is Imperial Gold to match with the toga, and Sidney looks down helplessly at the rich color as a soft leather belt is fastened around his waist and sandals are tied to his feet. Discomfort twists through his limbs at the clear mark of his new station; wearing Imperial Gold without the right to it is a death sentence to any citizen, and the peculiar anxiety that pairs with the color catches in Sidney's lungs and fills them with fear instead of air.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ducissa Luongo says, rousing Sidney from his reverie as she holds out an intricate rosewood box. “Your diadem?” He wordlessly opens the latch and in it lies the simple golden band that Imperator Lemieux placed upon his head. Sidney takes it with trembling fingers and settles it in place as the attendant gives a firm, satisfied nod. “Now, Your Imperial Majesty, your guard waits outside your rooms. They will escort you to your litter to take you to Cautio Dupuis’ villa.”

Sidney opens the door to the hall and recoils as he sees nothing but the towering Humility glowering at him. A guard clears his throat, and Sidney shakes his head and steps forth. Perhaps it was foolish, but-- he did not expect the company of the Humility for a private audience, though he should know that his life is one with the slave’s now.

“Let us proceed,” Sidney says briskly, and tries to ignore the jangle of chains as the guards escort him to a courtyard where the litter awaits. He scrambles in, catching his knee with a hiss on the side of the frame and snatching at his toga before it slides off his shoulder, and settles onto the rich pillows. The slaves move quickly, strong and well-fed, and Sidney relaxes as the Humility is walked behind the litter, out of his sight.

The city passes by, tiny moments here and there catching Sidney's eye. Eventually, gold glitters on the walls of the villas, and Sidney realizes with a start that they must be within the Golden district, where the oldest and most influential of the Hundred Houses lie their heads at night. Sidney's litter is deposited in the front courtyard of one such villa, the walls overflowing with gentle greenery. The front entryway reveals a house slave, clearly lying in wait, who genuflects the moment Sidney emerges from the litter. The guards move to follow Sidney, Humility in tow, but he waves at them, saying, “No, stay with the litter-- my discussion with Cautio Dupuis is private.” The guards look at Sidney with round, disbelieving eyes, but stay behind as Sidney enters the house and is escorted through the atrium.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, standing, as Sidney is ushered into the inner garden. “Please, take your ease and rest; yesterday was difficult for all, and I hope you are recovering well.”

“As well as can be expected, Cautio Dupuis,” Sidney says cautiously, sitting on a stone bench and arranging his toga with nervous hands. “I must admit, I do not know for what reason you have so quickly requested my presence.”

Cautio Dupuis pauses as he settles next to Sidney, turning with drawn eyebrows to look at him. “Your Imperial Majesty, it is nothing but gratitude that hides behind my request. Without your actions yesterday, I would not have greeted the dawn this morning.”

“It was-- it was nothing--” Sidney mutters at his knees, fumbling fingers burrowing into his toga as he sees Cautio Dupuis frown and shake his head from the corner of his eye.

“It was the greatest gift any person has given me,” Cautio Dupuis says firmly. “Your Imperial Majesty, I vow my life to you, for you took it in your hand and nurtured it when you could have easily extinguished it. I shall always stand by your side; I am your greatest ally in all things, Your Imperial Majesty, for I owe you a debt I could not pay back even with all the years that remain. Please, accept my pledge, and I will not disappoint you.”

“I accept,” Sidney says, voice shaking, but is saved from any further comment by a youthful shriek. A boy of maybe four years flies from the bushes in the garden, laughing as he wraps his arms around Cautio Dupuis’ legs.

“Kody, you must behave before His Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis scolds fondly, and the boy’s giggling cuts off as he hides on the other side of Cautio Dupuis’ legs, wide brown eyes warily watching Sidney. “He is a fine boy, if a bit over-enthusiastic,” Cautio Dupuis says, apology and pride warring in his expression. Sidney is struck with a sudden, painful thought that lumps in his throat and stabs in his heart. Is this how his father speaks of him now, trapped in the villa away from the capital and Sidney, with pride in his voice? Or is Sidney's name unspoken in the home?

His grief is interrupted by a girl, perhaps six years of age, running up and crashing into Kody. She’s followed by a woman who must be Ducissa Dupuis, hand propped upon the quickened roundness of her belly. Cautio Dupuis leaps up, taking her hand and showering kisses upon it before sliding his arm about her waist and guiding her over to Sidney. “Your Imperial Majesty, this is my wife, the Ducissa Carole-Lyne Dupuis. My lady, this is His Imperial Majesty, Imperator Crosby the First.”

“It is a pleasure--” Sidney starts as Carole-Lyne bends as well as she can, saying, “Your Imperial Majesty, it is the greatest honor--” They pause in tandem, eyeing each other and clearly waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Carole-Lyne finishes, “It is the greatest honor to meet you. I cannot express my gratitude at your actions; the House of Dupuis is forevermore your loyal servant, and anything we can do in service to our debt is our honor to fulfill.”

“Please, Ducissa Dupuis, it is--” Sidney tries to deflect, hands burying again in his toga, but she mercilessly interrupts him.

“My husband is here today thanks to your mercy, Your Imperial Majesty, and I will not accept your dismissal of your actions. To lose my husband is the greatest tragedy I can imagine, but I was resigned to it until the gods moved through you yesterday. Now I am not left alone in this world to raise our three children, and my fourth shall know his father. The gift you have given us is beyond compare.” Her chin is held high, but her eyes shine as her lip trembles, and Sidney cannot think of his own mother and the son she has now lost.

“Thank you, Ducissa Dupuis,” Sidney says roughly, and she says, “All the thanks are due to you, Your Imperial Majesty,” before making another small bow and ushering Kody and the girl-child from the garden.

“So,” Cautio Dupuis says into the silence of Sidney contemplating his own family, “How can I assist, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“I fear I do not even know enough to have questions to ask,” Sidney admits lowly. “How do you believe I should ask of your assistance?”

“The council of state is the most important tool that you have now,” Cautio Dupuis says. “Your questions should concern it foremost. By tradition, you will maintain Imperator Lemieux’s for the first month before you may choose your own council. Most emperors replace few members of the council; of the five clementes, rarely more than one is changed, and of the ten cautiones, three is the usual limit.”

“And I may choose any dux or sanctus to sit on my council?” Sidney asks, dread building. How can he choose from a list of names and faces that he knows so poorly? Who can he trust to act with fair judgement and pure intentions if he cannot even recall who they are?

“Yes, though I warn you, it is poorly looked upon to remove any of the four Greater Sancti from the council, as well as the Magnus Clemens and Magnus Cautio of the previous council. Of the council now, Cautio Orpik is Magnus Cautio, and Clemens Price of Solus is Magnus Clemens. They are wise, steady men, and I see no reason to question their loyalty to you.”

“That is fair news, Cautio Dupuis. Are there others amongst the council you would speak good word of?”

Cautio Dupuis hums. “They were all well devoted to Imperator Lemieux, but it remains to be seen how they will greet you, Your Imperial Majesty. I must say-- I believe you will find a kindred spirit in Clemens Knight of Lunat, but I cannot speak strongly in either direction about the remainder until the council convenes.” Cautio Dupuis must see the question in Sidney's eyes, for he immediately continues, “The council will meet tomorrow after lunch, and continue every other afternoon as Imperator Lemieux preferred, until the month has passed.”

“I see,” Sidney says, and stares into the garden in contemplation. The sun has barely risen and he is too tired for speaking, but Cautio Dupuis must understand for he sits in silence with Sidney. Eventually, there is the cry of a child from the house, and Cautio Dupuis sighs.

“I believe that is my duty calling me, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, and Sidney nods. “But know that my family is at your right hand and ready to ensure your continuing victory.” His hand lands heavily on Sidney's knee, and he shakes it gently before standing. Sidney stays with his head bowed, attempting to disguise his reaction to the simple gesture, and Cautio Dupuis says, “I-- I hope I have not overstepped my bounds, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“No, you have not,” Sidney chokes out, and he sees Cautio Dupuis step closer and reach a hand down. Sidney grips it, unsure of the meaning of it, and Cautio Dupuis hauls him bodily to his feet. Sidney stares dumbly and Cautio Dupuis smiles gently before clapping a hand to his shoulder.

“All is well, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says soothingly, and Sidney nearly believes it. “Go in peace, and we shall meet again on the morrow.”

Sidney goes.

He returns to a whirlwind in the palace, slaves and regimental captains sprinting this way and that. The storm settles about him long enough for a messenger to kneel and say, “Your Imperial Majesty, Valor Sedin requests your presence in the war room.”

“Lead me to him,” Sidney commands, and even though he takes careful note of each turn, he is lost within the halls in mere minutes. The slave finally opens a door before Sidney, to a room with a massive sand table, an assortment of chairs and couches, and a familiar face. He waves off the guards and the Humility as he enters, shutting the door firmly behind himself with them on the other side. Valor Sedin stands as Sidney turns about, the strips of his leather apron slapping together and the iron of his chest armor jangling with his movement. He salutes with another clap of metal, and Sidney nods awkwardly to release him. “Imperator,” Valor Sedin greets.

“Valor,” Sidney returns, settling mostly upright on a couch across from the Valor. “I am honored to truly make your acquaintance; I hope for a favorable relationship to lead the Empire to greater lands and people throughout my reign.” It seems a far more diplomatic comment then the thought in Sidney's mind: _I rely on your enthusiasm and training to carry me to favor, for I have no desire for the difficulties of war and wish for a simple reign_.

“I shall serve Your Imperial Majesty and the Empire with pride and bring what victories I can wring from our enemies,” Valor Sedin says. Sidney expected the greatest military power aside from himself to be a loud and aggressive man; Sedin’s unruffled demeanor is a relief compared to the brash daredevil he imagined, so he is more daring with his questioning than he means to be.

“Even on the outskirts of the capital, the rumors run strong about our battles. I hear that there are strong fronts in the south and the east; what can you tell me about each?”

Sedin sighs, rolling his head sharply on his neck until something pops. Sidney winces as Sedin says, “I will not speak a falsehood, Your Imperial Majesty. The situation in the south is fair, but the eastern front does not progress as we wish. The regiments are too thin and morale too low; I must go immediately to the training grounds to prepare the reinforcements and go with strength to the east.”

“Am I expected on the front?” Sidney nearly doesn’t ask; the fear rises strongly in him that he must go to the front and find the death he avoided in the arena. But it is better to know than to live in that fear, and the words cannot be recalled once they’ve left his lips, regardless.

Valor Sedin gives him a steady but slightly disapproving look before saying, “As in all things, Your Imperial Majesty, your will matters above our expectations. If you must ask for my recommendation, I would suggest that you remain in the capital. This is the time to find your place amongst the court and develop your council. I will care for the troops and bring you victory until your reign is established, and then you may see the front for yourself as you desire.”

SIdney exhales a shaky breath in relief, ignoring the Valor’s sympathetic look at his reaction. “Then such is my will,” Sid says decisively, and Valor Sedin inclines his head. “Are there any other matters I can assist with before you depart, Valor?”

“Only that I ask you be prepared to support the armies as they require,” the Valor says. “The Hundred Houses must give their tithes for us to succeed. Without food or men, we are not an army but a sham.”

“It is a simple enough request, Valor, and so I shall honor it,” Sidney says, though his comment is met by an incongruous huff of laughter by the Valor. “I shall hold you no longer; I presume you must head to the regimental grounds immediately. Go with my blessing, Valor Sedin. Increase our might and stretch the bounds of the Empire.”

Valor Sedin nods before standing along with Sidney. “Should you require me, Your Imperial Majesty, please do not hesitate to recall me. Otherwise, I will spend my time at the regimental grounds before proceeding to the eastern front with the new regiments when they are prepared.” He salutes again and strides quickly out of the room, and Sidney relaxes back into the couch as he considers the meeting. Valor Sedin’s brusqueness is almost comforting; that he already has a strategy leaves Sidney feeling as though he has one less crisis to concern himself with.

Sidney stands, content with the outcome as he departs the room. He nearly crashes face-first into Dux Hall, who is loitering outside of the door with a furrowed brow and nervously darting eyes. He reaches out to catch Dux Hall, but withdrawals at the panic in his eyes-- it is too easy to forget the new distance placed between him and his subjects, even those as esteemed as the Hundred Houses. Dux Hall rights himself without Sidney’s help, and they stare blankly at each other before Dux Hall appears to remember his purpose.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I must discuss with you a matter of protocol,” Dux Hall says, shifting quickly from one foot to the other as he speaks.

“Must you, Dux Hall?” Sidney asks as he motions to his guard to follow and begins to walk down the hall. “It has been a long day, and I am wearied. Can this topic not wait until tomorrow?”

“I apologize, Your Imperial Majesty, but it cannot,” Dux Hall says, determinedly bobbing along at Sidney’s elbow. Sidney halts abruptly and Dux Hall skids to a stop just before he overtakes Sidney.

“Then speak quickly, so that I may go to my well-earned rest,” Sidney says, crossing his arms.

Dux Hall swallows visibility, ducking his head again before saying in a strange quaver, “Your Imperial Majesty, it has been brought to my attention as your Master of Slaves that there has been a slight irregularity with your Humility. It has been requested to me to elucidate to you the role that the Humility serves. He must accompany you in all that you do, except when you take your rest, for an emperor cannot be without his balance to his valor.”

“I am not interested in having a disloyal slave be witness to delicate conversations, Dux Hall,” Sidney challenges; he cannot help but recall Imperator Lemieux’s final whispered words: _"_ _Beware your Humility.”_   “This is a time of great change and upheaval, and to provide him information is to provide it to the world.” He glances over Dux Hall’s shoulder to meet the flat stare of the Humility and attempts not to shiver at the chill that runs through him.

“I understand your concern, Your Imperial Majesty, but Magnus Imperator Stanley commanded the Silence of the Humility, forbidding any true citizen of the Empire from allowing the words of the Humility to affect their heart.” Sidney open his mouth to protest that any enemy of his would not be a true citizen of the Empire, but Dux Hall barrels on, “and if it becomes such an issue, Your Imperial Majesty, rest assured that the Humility can be gagged or more permanently muted to prevent a threat against your wellbeing.”

Any desire to fight with Dux Hall drains suddenly from Sidney. “Yes, Dux Hall, I understand,” he says, beginning to walk again. “I will permit the Humility to accompany me, though the rattle of his chains has given me a headache.”

Dux Hall trots alongside him, a relieved smile breaking out on his face as he says, “I apologize, Your Imperial Majesty, but we must be cautious as we discern the nature of this Humility. He will gain privileges as he proves his good behavior, and we will remove the additional bindings, though he shall always wear a collar and chain.”

“I hope that these privileges shall be granted sooner rather than later,” Sidney says. Regardless of the Humility’s frigid attitude, he is-- compelling, in some way, and it seems excessive to keep him so tightly guarded.

“As do I, Your Imperial Majesty,” Dux Hall says, and blessedly, they have arrived at Sidney’s rooms. As he dismisses the lord, his guards, and the Humility, he catches eyes with the slave again, and this time, there is the slightest twist to the Humility’s mouth and the tiniest hint of curiosity in his eyes. As Sidney kneels before his shrine to pray to the gods before taking his rest, his mind is filled not with the divine and his prayers but rather the brown, sleepy eyes of the Humility and the hidden depths within.

*     *     *

Any sense of ease remaining from his discussion with Cautio Dupuis flees from Sidney the next day as he joins Imperator Lemieux’s council for the first time. They convene early out of respect to the chariot races that afternoon, and Sidney grumbles from the bath to the council room despite feeling made anew by a restful night. The rattle of chains down the hall behind him only sour his mood further, and the door to the council chamber sticks, resulting in Sidney falling through it in a stumbling swirl of fabric. He rights himself, ignoring the burn of his cheeks, as he nods at the assembled councilors, half of which are attempting to stifle their merriment at his entrance. Chief among them is the only woman in the room, hooded black-and-silver toga marking her as the Clemens Knight that Cautio Dupuis had mentioned, her mouth twisting and shoulders shaking as she resists her laughter.

Sidney's attention is diverted by the guards and the Humility; they lead the slave over to a heavy iron ring dug deep into the stone of the wall and loop the chain about it, securing it with a heavy padlock. The leash is so short the slave must stand up straight and no more than a foot’s length from the wall, elbows braced against the stone to relieve the pressure of his hands chained behind his back. Sidney swallows heavily, dizzy as he watches, but the Humility is unperturbed, staring calmly at the opposite wall as though he stands alone in meditation.

Sidney refocuses as Cautio Dupuis clears his throat and says, “Your Imperial Majesty, welcome to the first council session of your reign, may it be long and victorious. We shall begin with introductions, for while all have met you, the night of your coronation was long and I doubt another opportunity to meet your council shall not go amiss.” Sidney forces his expression to remain flat despite the embarrassing mention of his misattention during the banquet, and the council members introduce themselves about the room, a dizzying chain of names half-remembered. Clemens Knight smiles as much as Cautio Staal scowls, and the gentle timbre of Clemens Price’s voice soothes Sidney after the grate of Clemens Zetterberg’s. After Cautiones Thornton and Engelland call their names, Sidney finally recognizes Clemens Zetterberg’s voice as that which gave the final blessing before the battle began-- it must be this memory that sends a chill down Sidney's spine when the priest speaks.

Clemens Price steps forward, pushing back his sky-blue toga from where it obscures his eyes as he speaks. “Your Imperial Majesty, the first order of business is the advance of the Empire. Our armies stretch out to the south and east, two fronts demanding all our attention. The south progresses as battles do; the east, however, fares poorly. As you know, Valor Sedin has joined the training regiments, for we must bolster the thinning numbers in the fields, but let us discuss how else to bring victory.”

A silence settles over the council before Clemens Zetterberg clears his throat. “Councilors, again I warn that Iras will take his tributes regardless of our actions. Hold fast, and he shall reward us with victory.”

“Ridiculous!” Cautio Ference declares, sliding to his feet. “There is a difference between tributes and losing, Clemens. We cannot tolerate the current state; pull the armies and regroup.” Sidney feels foolish as he turns his head to follow every new voice, each one speaking too quickly after the previous to allow Sidney to interject.

The meeting quickly devolves into a shouting match, and Sidney's voice merely adds to the cacophony instead of resolving it. Any attempts at peace only draw the lines deeper between the council members, those who insist the east is a waste of resources stabbing fingers in the chests of those who declare with a spray of spittle that it shall be the next great triumph. The fight rages so great that even as the lords disperse, too angry to continue to meeting, shouts echo through the halls.

Clemens Knight remains alone with Sidney in the council chamber-- no, not alone, for the Humility still stands, silent and unaffected in his corner. She rounds the couch that Sidney has collapsed into, folding her arms as he surveys him. Sidney stares back blankly; he has no energy for games, and she must read it in his face, for she shakes her head slowly. “It is not an easy task, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says with sympathy. “The council is not a meek creature but rather full of strong opinion, but they will serve you well if you can find the patience to rally them.”

“I fear not even the patience of the gods would be enough,” Sidney says grimly, and she tilts her head at him.

“Imperator Lemieux was able to soothe the many-headed beast that is the council, Your Imperial Majesty. I think in time, as you search your new divinity, you too shall find that heavenly patience.”

“Is there something you wish of me, Clemens Knight?” Sidney asks. Instead of looking at her he watches the Humility, waiting for a sign of anger, of despair, of _life_ , but the slave is still except for the gentle brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks on every slow blink.

“Lunat guides the hunter, as you know,” she says, an abrupt non-sequitur, and Sidney turns back to her with a frown. “A good hunter can kill with great skill, but the best hunter knows when not to take a life. Your actions in the rink were seen by many, but few, I think, understand your mind. Many call you weak for sparing those whom you could have easily collected as tribute to your prowess, but I see instead a fine hunter, wise and compassionate.”

“Thank you?” Sidney says, and Clemens Knight smiles at him, wide and bright.

“What I am saying, Your Imperial Majesty, is that I do not wish you to be a stranger in my temple. Call on me and I shall serve dutifully; Lunat knows your heart and will shine her favor upon your Empire.”

“Thank you,” Sidney says, more sure this time, and he swears he sees the Humility’s eyes flicker towards him for the tiniest moment as Clemens Knight takes her leave.

*     *     *

Two weeks. Two miserable, long weeks of days of council meetings interspersed with those of rest and nothing has changed. Despite hours of debating, of arguing, of posturing, there has been no consensus on the east. Send more men, do not send more men. Strip the fields of the early harvest and deliver it to the front, save the fruits of the farmers’ labor so that they may partake of their work. Provide Valor Sedin with the contents of the coffers of the Hundred Houses, allow him to suffer poverty until he can provide a victory.

Today, the same fights continue, and as Sidney props his cheek upon his fist and listens, he predicts each councillor’s stance before he opens his mouth. His guess proves correct for five councillors in a row-- Zetterberg, Foglino, Scuderi, Ference, and Quick -- and abruptly Sidney finds his temper lying buried deep beneath boredom and despair.

“Enough!” he roars into the council chamber, for once timing it into a moment of silence and surprising the councilors into sudden meekness. Surely Cautio Dupuis did not lie about this council’s efficacy under Imperator Lemieux, but still the choice of these fifteen as his closest advisers remains at best a mystery to Sidney. He has a headache, a vicious throb from his shoulders up through the crown of his head, and suddenly he decides that if he is the emperor, he shall damn well take advantage of his authority.

“Your behavior is unacceptable,” he stiffly tells the shocked faces around him. “I will tolerate it no longer. Sort out your spats amongst yourselves, as I am sure that there are more productive matters for me to attend to. Good day.” He sweeps out of the room, the guard scrambling to unchain his Humility and follow after; Sidney struggles not to grin and clench his fist in victory as the sounds of shouting follow him into the hall. Perhaps it is petty, especially as the guards rush after him, clumsy in their haste, but earning the final word brings him a little joy in his new, bleak life of lonely politics.

Unfortunately, storming from the council chambers does not entirely save him from his councilors; Clemens Price runs from the chambers to continue the argument about sending more provisions to the east, tunic swirling as he sprints down the hall to catch Sidney and finish his stern lecture. Sidney grits his teeth in fury, helpless to find his balance under the deluge of words; he’s distantly aware that tomorrow, on a fresh morning with a fresh mind, he will agree more heartily with the priest than with any of the others whispering in his ears. But today, he is _angry_ about the whispering voices, about the many agendas he is surrounded with, about the death in the east that is all because of him.

Sidney retreats to his receiving rooms once he escapes the pointed words of Clemens Price, continuing his habit of withdrawing after the council has enraged him. His chambers should be a bastion of peace, a welcome escape from the surges of humanity begging him for things he cannot give. Today, the isolation is instead an irritation, the silence and occasional _clink_ of the Humility shifting acting as another log upon the fire. He wishes for his mother, his father, for their wise council despite the prohibition of the emperor associating with his house. Instead he has a stubbornly mute slave and a room devoid of any comfort.

“By the gods, that’s enough,” Sidney finally snaps when the Humility shifts again. “My feet ache at the sight of you. Out of all the things I must suffer today, your misery is not one of them.” He stands and selects a chair, the plainest in the room though still quite heavy and ornate, and drags it over to his Humility. “Guards!” he calls, and the pair on duty run in, alert and with hands on their weapons.

“Loosen his leash,” Sidney says, gesturing shortly to his Humility, whose eyebrows are tweaked in surprise, though the rest of his expression is unaffected. “Long enough that he may sit without wheezing, thank you. I would obtain a dog like the insufferable Ducissa Hall’s beast should I enjoy that noise.”

“Your Imperial Majesty--” one of the guards begins, and is elbowed into silence by the other, who bows and says, “As you command, Your Imperial Majesty.” There’s the clink of the chain being adjusted as Sidney paces in a furious circle at the other end of the room, followed by the creak of the door as the guards leave.

Sidney turns, and the slave stands there still, watching, face back to its normal blank slate. “What do you wait for, an invitation?” Sidney says snidely, and the Humility tilts his head curiously before stepping to the side and carefully sinking into the chair. “At least one person in this gods-damned palace has a grain of sense in their heart,” Sidney groans, collapsing onto a couch and immediately lounging, debating the merits of covering his eyes as a fainting, overcome maiden would. There’s no one to see but the Humility, and the gods know that even should they bless the slave with the miracle of speech, not a soul in the Empire would open their ears to him, so Sidney shrugs and flings his arm across his face.

He starts, disturbing the darkness as his arm slips, when a muffled sound echoes around the room. Sidney looks suspiciously to the right, but the Humility is staring demurely at the ground. It may have been a laugh, but it equally could have been a sneeze, Sidney decides. He will ask the attendants tomorrow morning to see to it that the slaves who clean do a better job of removing the dust. And have the chair the Humility sits in washed and polished.

Silence reigns again-- a greater ruler than Sidney-- and he leans back in his chair and tries to think of all the advice his father has ever given him in statecraft. It’s but a poor replacement, but cold comfort is better than none. Instead of any wise words about managing difficult people, though, he thinks of his mother; _When illness strikes, we must clean_ , she said, directing the house slaves to wash the floor and air out the couches. The thought persists through his evening prayers, and he does not consider why it is suddenly such an issue to him.

*     *     *

Sidney gives the order to have his receiving room cleaned from top to bottom the next morning while suffering the indignities of the Ceremony of the Sun. “Your Imperial Majesty, I apologize for the oversight,” babbles Ducessa Luongo as she pauses in scrubbing Sidney’s arm. Her eyes are wide, white showing all around, as if she expects Sidney to stab her on the spot for her family’s transgressions. “It will be rectified immediately, Your Imperial Majesty, we shall start the slaves on it this morning--”

“That will do,” Sidney says, because otherwise she may not close her mouth until the end of times. She subsides, patting his hair into place and offering the gilded rosewood box containing his diadem. He settles it on his head and stares glumly at his wavering reflection in the bronze mirror; even in the darkness of the metal, the bright yellow of his tunic and toga is recognizable, and the neatness of his hair and the glitter of the diadem is equally evident. There are moments still when Sidney's eye catches on the Imperial Gold of his garb, and his heart beats quickly before he remembers that the color is his right now, that he is the sole wearer of pure saffron cloth.

The strange sense of armor that comes with the Imperial Gold is welcome today. The requisite month of maintaining Imperator Lemieux’s council of state has passed, and so on this day he may begin the interviews and negotiation-- and scheming, gods save him-- to set his own council.

“I am to meet with Clemens Knight this morning, and the Cautio Dupuis this afternoon,” Sidney stiffly tells today’s pair of guards when he emerges from his chambers. “My Humility must be excused from my conversations, as I fear he is showing the beginnings of illness. See to it that he is well-rested and well-fed today; I shall not accept sickness in him.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” a guard intones as he bows, and a slave falls in to receive the guard’s instructions as they head to the courtyard. His litter awaits-- disappointingly still attended to by the terrifyingly beautiful slaves-- and Sid tries to clear his mind of any contemplation of about them as he climbs into the litter. Thankfully, the Temple of the Moon is no more than ten minutes’ walk from the palace, though it’s ten torturous minutes as Sidney reminds himself, _they are not pleasure slaves, they are not to be touched, they are no different than any other beast of burden_.

He’s sweating out of proportion to the gentle warmth of the sun when they arrive at the graceful ebony-and-silver doors dominated by the crescent moon of Lunat. A clericus in her silver-and-black toga waits as Sidney extricates himself from the breezy linen curtains of the litter that inevitably tangle in his sleeves. The clericus bows and leads him deep into the temple, eventually opening a modest door and gesturing him through.

Compared to Clemens Price’s chambers in the Temple of the Sun-- large, glittering, and overly warm with a thousand candles scattered about the tiny space-- Clemens Knight’s chambers are a relief. The room is in twilight, heavy curtains blocking out the morning sun, and the the gentle shush of water from a tiny stream leads to a sunken pool in the center of the room. As Sidney's eyes adjust to the dimness, he realizes with a start that the priest is sitting at the pool, tunic hiked up around her thighs with her feet trailing in the water. She catches his eye and grins widely, motioning him over.

“Clemens Knight,” Sidney greets hesitantly as he approaches the pool and settles next to her, knees tucked up to his chest as he doubtfully eyes the water and his sandals.

“Hilary will do, Your Imperial Majesty. My private chambers are not a place for ceremony, I feel.” Her gaze is frank, eyebrow raised suggestively under the drape of toga concealing her hair, and Sidney sighs, unlacing his sandals and setting them aside. He wriggles inelegantly from side to side to tuck his toga up high enough, but dipping his feet in the coolness of the water is pleasant enough to make up for the awkward thrashing required. “Should I be given the license to guess the reason for your visit, I would place my bet on the instatement of your council,” Hilary says. Her bluntness is as soothing on his soul as the pool is on his feet, and Sidney relaxes.

“I did not realize that earthly pleasures such as betting now fell under the purveyance of the moon,” Sidney says, and Hilary laughs, throwing her head back.

“You _are_ quite the entertaining one, aren’t you,” she says approvingly. “I personally find that among all the earthly pleasures available to me, there’s none quite so satisfying as gossip. And the gossip of this day is that I am the first Clemens to be graced with your presence in this time of choices.”

“Someday I will learn how all others know my own thoughts before I do,” Sidney says, more than a little put off. Hilary pats his arm consolingly and replies, “Someday you will learn how to think quietly enough that we do not overhear every sentence that passes through your mind.” Sidney feels his face twist into a pout, and Hilary adds, “Also, Cautio Dupuis and I take dinner together often, and you are as unsubtle with him as you are with me.”

Sidney sighs. “Then I suppose it’s of no surprise when I tell you I come to ask for you to replace Clemens Price as the Magnus Clemens on my council?”

“Do you require shock? For you, I would find an inch of shock, Your Imperial Majesty.” Her eyes widen, and she claps a hand to her chest, mouth round. “Oh, the unexpected! Your Imperial Majesty! It is an honor that you ask.” Sidney scowls and flicks water at her. She is quite impudent, more so here than during council meetings, but it is refreshing.

“Clemens Price served well as Magnus Clemens for Imperator Lemieux, but I find him…” Sidney searches for the appropriate word. He is measured, and certainly wise, but not to Sidney's taste.

“Overly serious and occasionally pedantic,” Hilary opines. “Yes, all can see how poorly suited he is for you, though I would advise you continue to listen when he speaks, as he does not comment without cause.”

“Is that your acceptance, Clemens Knight?” Sidney asks. “Or must I return to the palace without a victory for the day?”

“So sad, like a pup waiting for its meal,” Hilary coos, and Sidney can imagine her speaking to the long-nosed hounds of the moon in just the same way. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty, you may have your victory. I accept, under the condition that Clemens Price remains on the council.”

“If you read my thoughts so easily, you should know well that I have no intention of removing any of the Greater Mercies from the council,” Sidney says, swishing his feet in the water. He thinks longingly of the lake at the villa, of chasing Taylor through the water or fishing with his father in the clear depths, before coming back to the moment. “I am not so daring an emperor, I think.”

Hilary looks at him with the secret smile that all sancti share and says, “Perhaps it is too soon to decide _that_ , Your Imperial Majesty.”

*     *     *

His meeting with Cautio Dupuis is filled with much less insolence, though he emerges with victory there as well; Cautio Dupuis accepts Magnus Cautio of the council, and Sidney retreats to his receiving room, ready to retire with his sleepy satisfaction. A slave loiters outside the door when he arrives, and she genuflects and says, “Your Imperial Majesty, I regret to inform you that your receiving room will not be prepared until tomorrow.”

Sidney scowls-- perhaps he should have expected this-- and says, “Have a table and a platter-- oh, and wine-- taken to the Night Garden, and I will take my evening contemplation there.” The slave sprints off, and Sidney turns to his guards. “I expect my Humility to join me, barring any greater illness upon him,” and one of the guards walks briskly off.

In addition to Sidney's requests-- a small table practically groaning under a hearty platter of finger food and a carafe of wine, a chair, and the Humility chained to a heavy flowerpot-- there are a number of sweet-smelling torches placed in the garden to ward off the late summer pests. Sidney sinks gratefully into the chair, waving a lazy hand at the guards to dismiss them to the shadows. The Humility already sits cross-legged on the ground, his back leaned up against the flowerpot, and he is trying and failing to surreptitiously examine the blooms around them.

Today is the first day since winning the Empire that Sidney ends the day further ahead of where he started. Instating his Magnus Cautio and Magnus Clemens were but two tiny steps, but knowing that he has begun taking control of his council leaves him more settled. The Humility’s secretive inquisitiveness as he inches closer to the blooming night-lilies stirs a fond memory in Sidney's mind.

“My mother loves lilies,” Sidney says into the gentle breeze of the twilight, and the Humility starts, twisting his head around to look at Sidney with surprised eyes. “Night-lilies, like those, are beautiful, but to her no more beautiful than all the others. She keeps a garden full of every variety we could buy, but always she hunted for more. ‘There’s no lily as sweet as the wild bloom,’ she told me many times.” Sidney smiles to himself at the memory-- he had been a boy of six the first time she had told him that, and he had immediately gone out to the forest and dug up five wild lilies, bulbs and all, and carried them triumphantly back to her, leaving a trail of dirt all along the villa. Taylor had done much the same when she reached that age; Sidney wonders if she’s yet learned the meaning of their mother’s saying.

“Mother loves all flowers, though. Taylor and I would always run to the forest and pick her bouquets of wildflowers when we were avoiding the tutors. We always hoped it would lessen her wrath when she heard of us skipping our lessons.” The Humility is still watching Sidney intently, but he makes no move to speak. Sidney admits his curiosity-- what timbre does his voice have, how does he speak, does he have interesting thoughts? But the Humility withholds any satisfaction from Sidney.

Still, it’s a relief to set free the thoughts teeming in his head, so Sidney continues, recounting his youthful adventures by rambling from one story to the next. That life feels a hundred months gone, not one, and the sharp pain in his chest is barely soothed by telling his Humility the stories of his youth, now set aside in service to the Empire. The only balm is that the Humility sits, attentive, eyes not leaving Sidney's face until he is prodded up by the guards to be escorted back to his chambers.

*     *     *

It becomes a soothing habit to speak each day’s thoughts to the Humility. On the day he asks Sanctus Subban to replace Clemens Zetterberg on his council, Sidney tells the Humility of the beauties of the Crosby estate: the gentle roll of the earth, the welcoming branches of the forest, and the irreplaceable warmth of every room in the villa. As he chooses which cautiones to keep and which to eliminate, Sidney complains vociferously to the Humility, until he decides which of the lords he truly dislikes enough to unseat. And when another poor report comes in from the east-- a failed push recommended by Valor Sedin-- Sidney sits in silence, burning precious frankincense in the memory of the lost soldiers, carefully ignoring every half-suppressed sneeze of his Humility.

More difficult than deciding which cautiones shall be demoted is deciding how to communicate their release. Sidney decides that four lords have no place continuing in their Cautionships: Cautiones Staal, Engelland, Scuderi, and Hossa. They are fine men, he supposes doubtfully, but they often argue for the sake of hearing their own voices, and he has caught them all purposefully working against his wishes during council meetings. It is far from unusual to face such hostility after the change of an emperor, but Sidney frets; four removals is not a record, though combined with the replacement of Clemens Zetterberg it makes for a third of the council refreshed, which shall undoubtedly lead to further gossip and maneuvering amongst not only the council but also the Hundred Houses.

One, two, three days pass after he makes his choice, and finally he can no longer delay the announcement. It seems simplest to gather all four together and dismiss them as one, so Sidney sends around a page and collects them in the Lesser War Room.

The air is heavy and the four lords’ faces are grim when Sidney enters the room. They rise and bow perfunctorily, Dux Staal’s movement more a mockery than a sign of respect, and Sidney motions them to sit.

“The Empire is grateful for your service,” Sidney says, short and sharp, stomach churning as a chill sweeps through the room. “You have brought glory to us all through your actions on the council of state, and I commend all that you have accomplished while acting as The Empire’s Caution. I release you from your cautionship and return you to your noble duties. Rest well, my lords, for it is a rest well-earned.”

Sidney can see a muscle twitching in Dux Scuderi’s jaw, but Dux Hossa places a hand on his arm and says, “I speak for all assembled here when I thank you for your consideration, Your Imperial Majesty. With your blessing, we will take our leave.” Sidney nods, relieved, and watches as the men file out past the guards and the Humility. He wants nothing more than to sigh out all his troubles and collapse in a chair, but he is expected to have lunch with Clemens Knight, so he holds his head high and strides out of the room.

She waits for him under a canopy in the Water Garden, idly picking at a bunch of grapes. She stands as Sidney approaches, watching as the guards fix the Humility to what looks suspiciously similar to a hitching post before retreating.

“I see that none of the lords have caused permanent damage upon your person over their dismissal,” she says as they sit and an attending slave begins serving their plates.

“It was a near miss, Clemens; had Dux Hossa not exercised due caution, I believe Dux Scuderi may have leapt across the table and bitten out my throat with his own teeth.”

Clemens Knight pauses, an expression of true shock passing her face, nothing like the playful teasing of their first meeting. “You dismissed them together?” she asks, her hand paused halfway to her mouth.

“Yes?” Sidney says, suddenly uncertain. “It seemed most direct, and allowed each lord to know it was not a singular event or a personal grudge.”

“And it lets each lord know from the start who their greatest allies will be in destabilizing you!” Clemens Knight cries, distressed, and thankfully puts her bread down on her plate before honey dribbles all over her vestments. “Your Imperial Majesty, the last thing you want your enemies to know is who your other enemies are.”

“Surely they would not remain ignorant forever of which lords were dismissed,” Sidney snaps, placing his own food down as his appetite suddenly escapes.

“Certainly not, but the least you could do would be to make it difficult for them,” Clemens Knight says, and sighs, picking up the abandoned bread and popping it in her mouth. “Your Imperial Majesty, I am sure that you are not ignorant of the fact that every emperor back to Magnus Imperator Stanley has faced at least one assassination attempt-- or _success_ \-- within the first six months of their reign. Do not think that you will be so beloved that the nobles will forget that their only barrier to godhood is you, and that by your death at their hand such godhood shall become theirs.”

“I wish them no ill! My only aim is that of my oath-- to protect and grow the glory of the Empire. The Hundred Houses are not my enemy, especially when the campaign in the east goes so poorly.”

“You’ll find their perspective is different,” Clemens Knight says with a sniff. “Their greatest fear is to be given the treatment of the Ten Traitors, justified or not, and you alone hold that power. They live in fear and awe of you, Your Imperial Majesty, as they should, but it means that they will act like naughty children around their father rather than as the lords that they are, if you give them the leash to do so.”

“What’s done is done,” Sidney says, half to soothe Clemens Knight and half to assuage the heaviness in his heart. “Not even the gods can change the past.”

“Keep your wits and your guard about you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says. “Now, I have heard that Dux Eberle is putting forth a new charioteer in tomorrow’s race; how do you feel the odds will fall?”

That evening, Sidney struggles to summon up any thoughts at all to share with his Humility during his contemplation that day. He doubts himself and Clemens Knight-- was it that grevious of a misstep? Will such a small move truly lead to the premature end of his reign? Or worse--

“I fear not my own death the greatest, but the assassination of Taylor as punishment for my actions,” Sidney says musingly, and terror flashes through him even at the thought. “She is good, and kind, and does not deserve any death for her brother’s actions.”

“I’m have brother.” The voice is soft, broken and sharp at the edges from disuse, and Sidney's head whips around of its own accord, jaw dropping in surprise. The Humility is apparently not mute, as Sidney had begun to wonder, and he speaks with a thick barbarian accent, though it sounds as if it would be a pleasant timbre when returned to full use. “He’s name Denis.” He pauses, and Sidney waits, breathless, as the Humility’s expression firms and the light in his eyes is shuttered. “He’s dead now, your soldiers kill him. Died to save me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sidney chokes out as the silence drags on too long, and the Humility laughs, sharp and bitter.

“Sorry enough to let me go?” he asks, taunting. “Sorry enough to ask gods, bring Denis back to life? No, not that sorry, _never_ that sorry.”

There’s nothing for Sidney to say, but he’s desperate to keep the slave talking, unsure if silence now would spell silence forever. “So I shall know your brother’s name, but not your own?” he gambles.

“Brother more important,” the Humility says. He’s staring at the floor, and Sidney suspects his expression is like that of a man hit by a spear.

“Please,” Sidney says, soft, unsure why he begs this slave when he needs not ask twice of  anyone else in the empire.

The Humility looks up, and his expression is smooth but a fire burns deep within his eyes. “Evgeni,” he snarls, and stands from his chair and turns to face the wall. He does not move again, though Sidney pleads in every way he knows how, recklessly promising gifts and food and _a_ _nything_ for the Humility-- _Evgeni_ \-- to face him. He even hovers a hand over Evgeni’s strongly muscled arm, close enough to sense the warmth of his skin and how he burns with barbarian passion, unbalanced, unchecked. Sidney shakes his head, withdraws his hand, and returns to his seat. Perhaps it is a victory, but it feels like defeat, especially when the guards must bodily drag the Humility back to his chambers at the close of the night.

*     *     *

Evgeni’s silence returns, and a full month slips away before Sidney's eyes. He wakes in the middle of the night, but not to an urgent hand on his shoulder and the deferential, “Imperial Majesty, the Empire calls for your presence,” as has been the case for rising before the Ceremony of the Sun. Confusion floods him as he struggles to understand what roused him, but finally he feels the draft on his face from the open door and an unexpected chill on his left cheek. When he pries his eyes open, all he can see is a looming shadow between himself and the eastern window. Sidney supposes distantly that he should be panicking or fighting; if the assassin wishes him dead, though, there is little he can do now. The man has apparently already spat on his cheek, Sidney discovers when he raises a hand to brush at the chill on his cheek, so it is by his assassin’s mercy alone that he did not wake up as a corpse.

The shadow moves closer with a stride that is all too familiar, and indeed, when the figure bends over, the face revealed is Evgeni’s. His normal expression is twisted not with the killing rage that Sidney half-expected but rather something that splits Sidney's heart, tender and broken and angry and _pained_.

Evgeni does not speak, though he has no need to. A knife glints in his left hand, something enormous and terrible and clearly from the kitchen, but it is held in slack fingers. Evgeni stands still and looks at Sidney with everything that Sidney has done to him writ large on his face. Never has the Empire weighed heavier on Sidney's shoulders; he knows entirely that Evgeni is a man shaped by Sidney without either of their consent, and for the first time he questions the hushed stories told about Imperator Lemieux’s first Humility.

Were it anyone else standing over him, Sidney would assume they were after the throne; every citizen has heard the tales of lords who earned the Empire not in the arena but in taking the emperor’s life by his own hand and no other. But Evgeni stands above him, not with delusions of rule but another purpose altogether, and Sidney’s breath drags heavy in his lungs as he nearly begs, _Gain your justice, gain your revenge, take the final blow_. He’s stopped by a great shout and a clatter as the guards rush in. The peace of night devolves into shouting and turmoil as chains are wrapped around Evgeni and attached to his collar as he’s dragged bodily away from Sidney's side, eyes still steadily meeting his. Already Sidney can hear in the voices of the guards the pain that is to come to his Humility, but Evgeni coolly takes no notice.

Sidney recalls a moment not long before he left the estate for the capital. He and Taylor were hunting with a dog, and through sheer bad luck its paw tangled in a root not a mile from the estate, tripping it with a sickening crack of bone. The beast lay crying on the ground, and Sidney readied to cut its throat when Taylor shouted, “Stop!”

“I must, for its sake,” Sidney soothed her. “It’s in pain.”

“So you shall slaughter me should I fall off my horse and break my leg?” Taylor asked, fire in her voice, and once again Sidney prided in and despaired of her precociousness.

“You are hardly the same as a dog,” he said.

“Indeed, as this dog has provided us far more value than I have!” she said, throwing down her bow in her passion. “I merely sit about the estate and do what mother or father or you ask of me. This dog hunts, brings us food! Should only two return from the woods, one will certainly be the dog.”

Half an hour later, they emerged from the wood, the dog draped across Sidney's shoulder with a poor splint made of a stick and a not insignificant portion of Taylor’s tunic. The dog had yelped and cried and tried to bite as Sidney hefted it across his shoulders, but as they walked into the estate, he could feel on his shoulder the weak beat of its tail.

His Humility is no dog, but Sidney trusts the messages of the gods. “Return him to his room,” he commands, and the guards stop, bowing and tightening the chains around Evgeni until the man grunts in pain. “But do not punish him or speak of this incident ever again. He had his chance and did not act on it; the gods grant forgiveness for simple mistakes.”

“Simple mistakes--!” one of the guards begins, alarmed, but is immediately drowned out by Evgeni, thrashing and shouting, “ _Pity_ , fucking-- don’t need pity, don’t need _mercy_ , you--”

Thankfully, a guard gags him before the Humility can say anything that not even Sidney could have excused, and the guards hesitate until he dismisses them with a nod and, “There will be no mercy for y _ou_ should I find any damage on my Humility tomorrow.”

The thought of stripping Evgeni, of examining every inch of his skin for subtle marks of retribution, springs unbidden into his mind. It should be a chore, a tedious task to ensure that which is placed in his care is indeed cared for. The excitement that it arouses in him has no place in his life, nor does the sleeplessness as he relives the sight of Evgeni’s face so close to his and so open, and yet he is plagued by both through the rest of that night and for many nights after.

Evgeni is quiet and meek after that night, going so far as to avoid Sidney's eyes for nearly a week, and Sidney attributes it to the failed assassination attempt and so makes no mention in an attempt to preserve the fragile peace between them. On the seventh morning, though, the Humility is escorted into his room not just withdrawn but also hunched, pale, and shivering, the very sight of misery.

“Absolutely not,” Sidney commands immediately, for even slaves have limits. Other members of court had taken ill with the sickness that crept in through the doors and windows of the palace alongside autumn, and Sidney has no doubt of its guilt in Evgeni’s health. “Escort my Humility back to his chambers and send a healer to him. I will not suffer illness lightly, and I expect the finest care to be provided for my Humility.” The guards bow and escort Evgeni back out, and rightly that would be the end of any consideration Sidney has for the Humility until he returns to Sidney fully healed.

Would it be that life were so simple-- well. To begin, Sidney would not have to spend all day convincing Cautio Ference, Cautio Stamkos, and Clemens Jokinen that reallocating the Diligence sewage funds to the military was not absolutely critical for the next push in the east, as but one example. Clemens Knight, the irrepressible fiend that she is, sits in the corner of the Council Hall during the rather heated discussion and trades bets with Clemens Subban, Cautio Maatta,  Cautio Thornton, and Cautio Dupuis, at least until Cautio Dupuis loses too much and banishes her and her winnings to a further corner in a fit of childish rage.

From there, a wildness erupts that Sidney is helpless to control. Cautio Orpik and Cautio Ference host a shouting match over their respective villas’ sewage issues-- which have _nothing to do_ with the Diligence funds under discussion, Sidney notes despairingly-- while Clemens Knight tries to tempt Clemens Quick over to her corner to presumably enact some clever hell upon him as revenge for him shushing her earlier in the session. The other half of the remaining lords take their cue to begin discussing winnings from the last chariot race, and all hope of returning to the discussion at hand is lost.

Perhaps Sidney would not be driven to such rage over the council if but one session would end calmly and with agreement to the path forward. Instead, he loses control at every council gathering, a swirl of chaos started by one and eventually enveloping all in indulgent discussions about useless topics. The traction he had expected from eliminating those he thought were the core instigators has not emerged, and disappointment pierces through his heart as he stands and shouts over the din, “You are dismissed from this council session!”

Clemens Price frowns disapprovingly at Sidney, an expression mirrored by Clemens Quick, Cautio Thornton, and Cautio Perron, but the rest natter on, and Sidney petulantly stands in a swirl of robes and leaves. Clemens Knight’s eyes are lowered respectfully as Sidney strides past, but she murmurs, “Again, Your Imperial Majesty?” disapprovingly. He scowls at the door before wrenching it open-- who is she to make such comments, when she so readily instigates the council against him? Of course he must leave the council again, when again they have behaved so poorly.

He retires to his receiving room early, taking his dinner there as has become his habit, but the food is naught but ash in his mouth. Some formless desire rankles at his heart, but it is only when he has placed his bread down thrice to turn to the Humility’s corner that he realizes the heart of the issue.

Emperor or not, Sidney will not rouse Evgeni from his rest merely for Sidney's own pleasure. He picks listlessly at his dinner, giving up and pushing the platter away when he’s torn apart half a loaf of bread without placing a single piece in his mouth.

Sidney thinks, _How different is it to speak to silent walls than a silent slave?,_ so he opens his mouth to say, “Clemens Knight was baiting the council again today; her antics are--” but he can proceed no further as his throat closes up and his stomach threatens to rebel over what little food it contains. Too different, it seems, and Sidney throws his hands up in an invocation to the gods and goes to his bed.

*     *     *

The next day, Clemens Subban corners Sidney before the council session begins. “Your Imperial Majesty, if I may,” he says, and Sidney nods, resigning himself to yet another complaint against a fellow council member. “I would suggest perhaps lessening the number of council sessions, as a temporary solution in light of the recent difficulties of the council. Peace in the home does not come from surprising the family all at once, Your Imperial Majesty. To speak with your supporters individually before the sessions will prevent such… theatrics as we have seen lately.”

“The matrimonial bed has no bearing on the council room,” Sidney says, defensive, and Clemens Subban bows. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty, Paxius rules in the peace of the house and not the court,” he murmurs, but Sidney must concede the point in the privacy of his mind as Cautio Stamkos and Cautio Perron, who both ostensibly agree with Sidney, sidetrack the conversation for half an hour quibbling over the exact allocation of the legions in the east, a useless discussion without the input of Valor Sedin, still visiting the training fields to the south.

Again as Sidney retreats to his rooms he wishes for nothing more than to hide and speak at the Humility about his day. He remains firm that he will not remove Evgeni from his rest, although-- there is no reason why Sidney could not go to the Humility’s chambers himself. Indeed, it is not Sidney's right, but his _duty_ to see to it that his Humility is properly cared for and recovering well. So emboldened by this thought, he summons his guard and gives instruction.

In short order, Sidney is escorted to the Humility’s room, accompanied by slaves carrying a table and a chair and food aplenty. He hesitates, just barely, as they reach the door-- will he be unwelcome?-- and steels his spine. He is caring for his Humility; he is fulfilling his duty. Evgeni has no ability to send Sidney away, and once Sidney is satisfied with Evgeni’s health, Sidney will be able to turn his gaze back to the Empire.

The Humility’s private quarters are small, dominated by a modest bed that Evgeni is curled up in. His chain is attached to a ring on the wall, but at the very last link so that he is free to huddle under the thin blanket and shiver, as he currently is. The slaves begin to set down Sidney's chair, just barely within the door, and Sidney gestures imperiously. “Here, by the bed,” he says, and the slaves scurry to comply, placing the table and chair within arms’ reach of Evgeni’s head.

“Your Imperial Majesty, you are not safe there,” a guard protests, and Sidney levels a disapproving look at him. “I am sure the Humility is ready to leap up at a moment’s notice to end my life,” Sidney says frostily, and Evgeni shakes so vigorously that his chain rattles, as if to emphasize Sidney's point. “Make yourself useful and fetch more blankets; I distinctly remember ordering the finest care for my Humility as he heals, and I am displeased that my will has clearly not been carried out.”

The guards mumble apologies as they bow themselves out of the room, and Sidney sighs, collapsing ungracefully into the chair. Evgeni’s eyes are closed, so Sidney takes advantage of the moment to scrutinize the slave. The pallor of his cheeks is not quite deathly, but it is far from healthy, and sweat coats his brow even as he shudders.

“Evgeni, I have brought your dinner-- you must eat,” Sidney says, as persuasively as he knows how, and the immediate answer is a petulant, “Don’t want food.” Evgeni’s voice is even rougher from illness, and some spark of fondness lights inside Sidney and is immediately extinguished by irritation.

“I command you to eat your dinner,” Sidney says, and Evgeni opens his eyes to stare at Sidney and say, “No.” The staring match-- which drags on far too long-- is interrupted by the guards delivering additional blankets, undyed but of the finest, softest wool. They place the blankets at Evgeni’s feet, and Sidney waves them out, uninterested in having an audience for this battle of wills.

“Fine. If you do not wish to have your dinner, then I shall enjoy both my food and yours.” Sidney picks at the plates in front of him, loudly mm-ing and sighing in enjoyment as he takes bites of smoked fish and cheese and bread, and Evgeni’s narrow-eyed stare only lasts so long before he blurts, “Greedy! Give me bread.” He holds out a shaking hand, attempting to paw at the table, and Sidney drops his egg to push Evgeni’s hand away.

“Blankets first,” Sidney scolds, and stands to drape the new blankets over Evgeni. Evgeni thrashes weakly in protest and Sidney says sternly, “You must behave to earn your dinner.” Evgeni abates, his expression stormy, though it lacks power given the dreadful paleness of his skin. “Much better,” Sidney says, appropriate praise as Evgeni’s shivering quickly recedes.

Sidney returns to his chair, again rebuffing Evgeni as he makes an advance on the platter. Sidney knows that not even pampered palace slaves recline as they eat, so Evgeni is sure to make a mess of crumbs in his bed without assistance. Sidney rips off a bite of bread, dipping it in the honey and twirling it to catch the loose dribbles, and offers it to Evgeni, stopping an inch shy of the Humility’s mouth. Evgeni scowls, moving his hands up to take the bread, and Sidney quickly pulls his hand away.

“Can feed self,” Evgeni says.

“You are sick, and it is my duty to ensure my Humility’s well-being,” Sidney replies.

“You’re bring blanket, food. It’s not enough? You have to treat me like child, feed me?” Evgeni says, and Sidney concedes to himself that it is a fair point. He has no desire to begin losing arguments to slaves, though, and so he persists, offering the bread to Evgeni again instead of further discussion.

The Humility sighs, long and quiet, and opens his mouth wide enough that Sidney can feed him the bread. Sidney half-expects Evgeni to spit the food onto the bedsheets in protest, but he obediently chews and swallows. As a reward, Sidney picks up an apple slice and offers it, holding it carefully by one end. That bite Evgeni takes speedily, lips nearly brushing Sidney's fingertips.

Sidney feeds Evgeni bites of dessert-- apple slices, bread with honey, and almonds-- interspersed with eggs and roasted chickpeas, mild foods he remembers his mother giving him in the illnesses of his youth. Sidney feels no little guilt over the sheer volume of sweets he permits Evgeni, but every bite brings a brighter glow back to Evgeni’s face, and Evgeni is so much more eager for those foods that it settles Sidney's conscience. Evgeni retains control of his wine glass-- Sidney fears spilling it and staining Evgeni’s sheets, and the resultant fight to have the linens changed-- but every bit of food passes from Sidney's hand to Evgeni’s mouth.

Too soon the plates are devoid entirely of bread and egg and honey and Evgeni is lounging comfortably, cheeks once again ruddy and limbs free of shivers. He’s blinking slowly, as if it’s difficult to focus on Sidney, and Sidney finds himself pleased. As Sidney takes his portion of the platter, he already plans the strong discussion to come with the Master of Slaves and his housekeeping staff, a reminder that the care taken towards his Humility reflects directly on Sidney. Sidney finishes his meal just as Evgeni’s eyes slide shut, breath settling into an easy rhythm, and Sidney realizes that it is long past his time to return to his own chambers. Sidney expects no thanks, and certainly doesn’t receive any; truthfully, the peaceful look on Evgeni’s face as Sidney slips out the door is enough.

*     *     *

The sun dawns bright the next morning to Sidney, filled with peace and resolution to action, and he is firmly reminded of the power of the Balance. It is imperative that his Humility is healed as soon as possible; Evgeni’s absence for only two days dangerously unbalanced him. Sidney resolves to spend each evening with the Humility until he can accompany Sidney throughout the day again, to appease the gods and his own unruly heart.

The first action is cancelling the council session for the day, which Sidney attends to immediately, slaves running frantically from his rooms to tell the cautiones and the clementes the news. The slave sent to Clemens Subban also has a second message, contrite apologies from Sidney and a request to meet this morning. He receives an affirmative just as the Ceremony of the Sun is finished, so Sidney has no reason to delay. The litter is waiting-- he is _almost_ entirely unaffected by the shining skin of the slaves, now-- and he is at the Temple of Home at a barely reasonable hour.

As all the Greater Temples, it is finely appointed, but a different finery than the glittering greatness of Solus or the gentle mystery of Lunat. It is instead filled with the finest comfort that gold can buy, though despite the riches there is no ignoring of the humble roots of the home that Paxius rules over; clerici rise in the dark of each morning to bake the Holy Bread and make their benedictions over the warmth of the stove. It is said that in the direst of times, the Sanctus himself will imbue the steam of baking with his prayers.

Clemens Subban’s chambers also err on the humbler side. He sits at a table-- simple light wood, plain and uncarved-- draped in a toga of undyed wool. Sidney's arrival and announcement by the clericus causes him to look up from his papyrus, smiling broadly at Sidney and gesturing him in with an ebullient, “Come in, Your Imperial Majesty!” As always, Sidney is instantly at ease; Clemens Subban practically exudes the peace of Paxius from every pore.

Clemens Subban leads Sidney over to the lounges at the far end of the room, stopping to sweep a rough child’s toy, a rock tied to a thread, off one of the couches with a laugh. “Forgive the mess, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, throwing himself down indelicately as Sidney carefully settles himself. “My sister’s child insisted on joining me for the day yesterday, and I fear I shall be finding his marks upon my chambers for days to come.”

“Such are the ways of children,” Sidney says, smiling with fond memory. “Taylor, my younger sister, could make an empty room look as chaotic as the fields of battle, and after she would sit in the middle and proclaim her innocence.”

“My brothers waged war against each other many times,” Clemens Subban shares in return. “So it is no surprise that I became the heart of peace, for I learned early the wiles needed to prevent battles. But I suspect you come to me today concerned about a different battle, Your Imperial Majesty. I certainly hope I have not overstepped my bounds recently in regards to that battle.”

“Of course not, Clemens. As my messenger said, I must extend my apologies for brushing off your wise advice yesterday. I find myself in a position without my Humility, and to strike the Emperor’s Balance has been more difficult lately without his influence. So I come here, doubly humble, to request forgiveness and your counsel.”

Clemens Subban lifts an eyebrow, looking around the room obviously. “But of course my curiosity is piqued, Your Imperial Highness. What has befallen your Humility that you are bereft of his presence?”

“He has taken ill from the sickness that travels within the court,” Sidney says shortly. “There is little use in a Humility that has not the strength or health to stand. I hope that my Humility shall be well enough to return within three days, if the gods be willing.”

“Few understand as well as the clementes the divine need for balance,” Clemens Subban reminds gently. “We shall pray for the comfort of home in his illness and the peace of good health to return to your Humility. But-- as you say, you wish for counsel. How can I assist the Empire, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“I must concede that perhaps the marital bed has more to do with the Empire than I so asserted yesterday,” Sidney says, and Clemens Subban’s eyebrows fly into his hairline.

“Are you requesting assistance in arranging a political marriage, Your Imperial Majesty?” Clemens Subban asks, alarmed, and Sidney is so shocked he cannot find his voice to correct the assumption. “While it is a service often performed by my office, I cannot recommend it at this time, Your Imperial Majesty. I am sure that the Master of Slaves can assist you in more delicate matters should that be the issue--”

“No!” Sidney cries, finally. “No, Clemens Subban, I refer to your comment of yesterday, not to any, ah-- _lack_ in my personal life.” Sidney's face is surely aflame, but Clemens Subban thankfully does not comment, though he does sigh out a long breath.

“Perhaps Your Imperial Majesty will consider in the future being less obtuse,” Clemens Subban says drily, and Sidney nods, shamefaced. “So. The issue of your council sessions. I hope it is not overstepping to mention their particular inefficiency at this time, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I would be concerned had any not noticed that fact by now,” Sidney says miserably. “I do not understand why each session so quickly becomes a social event. Have they no desire for ensuring the Empire continues?”

“Do not ascribe such motives too soon,” Clemens Subban says. “At this time, the issue is not born of malice, but of simple confusion. Without supporters who can guide the conversation as you wish, you are but a sailor on an empty ship. To steer, you must have men at the oars, but your rowing banks are empty, Your Imperial Majesty. Arranging the appropriate rowers outside of council sessions will spring your ship into the ocean, where the waves may catch it and carry it to its destination.” Clemens Subban smiles apologetically, waving a hand in the air. “Forgive me, for I do enjoy a good metaphor, to the point of carrying it past its death. But I believe it is still an apt comparison, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Even so, Clemens Subban, the council members have their own duties to attend to, and far be it from me to remove them from their matters.”

“May I remind Your Imperial Majesty that you are indeed the Imperial Majesty? Should you desire their time and attention, it is only for you to say as such and it will be done. Do not forget that the only duty shared by all of the Hundred Houses is to attend to the Empire’s wishes. Your Imperial Majesty determines the Empire’s wishes, and so they owe their loyalty to you above all. Forget not the actions that brought the Ten Traitors low, or any other lesser traitors to the Empire; no lord will risk joining their ranks.”

Sidney frowns to himself. “And yet the Hundred Houses run wild, outside of the cautiones. I have no knowledge of their activities, so I do not see how they feel accountable to my whims.”

At that, Clemens Subban sits straight, eyes wide with shock. “You have no spoken with any of the Houses past the cautiones? I had heard the rumors that you were not attending many of the fights and races, but you do not dine with the Houses as well? Your Imperial Majesty, I cannot in good faith condone this. I must recommend immediately that you join the greater court.”

“I fail to see the crisis,” Sidney snaps. “The sworn Houses work with the cautiones in their cohorts as they always have. The cautiones relay to the council their cohort’s wishes, and vice versa, and so they are represented appropriately and assigned to duties.”

“This is only true should the council have any cohesive wishes to provide to the sworn houses!” Clemens Subban cries. “But now, they only know the chaos of a new emperor, one who hides his face from all but the council and the clergy. Your Imperial Majesty, you _must_ accept that you are the embodiment of the will of the Empire now, and the nobles only feel the weight of their duties under your gaze. Perhaps in ten years you may hide in your chambers to quietly maintain the Empire and the Balances, but in this time, solitude only brings you a quick assassination.”

Sidney suppresses the desire to snap at Clemens Subban, to declare him incorrect and leave to search for better counsel. The denial that echoes in Sidney's heart is too telling, and he takes several calming breaths before nodding. “I fear you are correct, Clemens Subban,” he says, and Clemens Subban graciously inclines his head. “The arena proves my worthiness, but I must earn my victories as emperor as I earned the victory in the arena. I thank you for your honesty.”

“I would suggest beginning with Cautio Dupuis’ cohort of sword houses,” Clemens Subban says. “Your actions in the arena have undoubtedly earned his eternal loyalty, and as such I am sure he has been keeping your name in good standing with his lords.”

Sidney takes his leave from the temple soon after, stepping forth with his hands full of two loaves of sacred bread. “One for Your Imperial Majesty, for good wishes through hard times, and one for your Humility, for health,” Clemens Subban had said, and though Sidney contemplated refusing them on principle, he could not lay aside the blessing of the gods on his Humility.

*    *     *

The evening breeze is far fresher than Sidney’s glum thoughts as it pushes through the fabric of the litter and caresses his face. The path around him is familiar; a messenger sent to Cautio Dupuis earlier returned a confirmation that dinner will be hosted as the Dupuis villa. Sidney guesses such an arrangement is more than likely because of panicked action after Sidney's message rather than a happy accident. However, the lord’s answer was immediate and enthusiastic, so he has no excuse to miss dinner.

Sidney’s litter is set down in the front yard far too soon for his tastes. Lamps above the door shine in the early dusk light and reveal a house slave who genuflects the moment Sidney emerges from the litter. “Your Imperial Majesty, if you would come with me,” the slave says. Sidney inclines his head and the slave leads him through the richly frescoed atrium and into the equally ostentatious dining room.

A crowd loiters inside the doorway of the dining room, giving their respects as one as Sidney enters the room. Cautio Dupuis emerges from the throng, extending his hands in welcome. “Your Imperial Majesty, it is the greatest honor that you choose to dine with us tonight,” he says, gripping Sidney’s hand and bending to kiss it. “I hope you find both the company and the feast refreshing and satisfactory.”

“I have no doubts that I shall, Cautio Dupuis,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis escorts him to the place of honor at the center of the semi-circular couch. Sidney settles, stretching towards the bread and cheese spread to busy himself as the other lords find their places. Cautio Dupuis is to Sidney’s right, a comforting presence, especially as Sidney does not recognize any of the other lords despite likely meeting them at the coronation banquet. Each lord is introduced in turn as they recline on the couch, and Sidney is hard pressed to remember each name even in the second after it is spoken. He thinks longingly of his receiving room, the quiet peace he regains from taking his dinner there and the stark differences of his habits to this dinner. In the awkward pause of his contemplations, a conversation limps along about the weather and the illness in court.

Somehow, the conversation loops around to the most recent news of the battles to the east, and the room grows more lively. Every lord has a strong opinion about the offensive-- it is too strong, it is not strong enough, our strategy is poor, our strategy is correct, with all opinions put forth without consensus or resolution. They bicker merrily, a topic clearly often discussed with each lord taking his habitual stance with his allies and enemies within the group.

Sidney avoids participating as much as possible; he does not know if the most accurate information would aggravate or soothe the discussions, and he is much disinclined to be interrogated about the specifics of the recent failures on the front. Instead, he watches, seeing which lords are play-fighting and which are more serious. Most worrisome is Dux Neal, who speaks most infrequently but is steadily growing more agitated, until he sits up and slaps an open palm on the wood of the table, bringing all talk to an abrupt stop.

“You sit and argue hypotheticals, as if real lives are not the gamble instead of money,” Dux Neal snarls, and another lord tentatively offers, “Dux Neal, surely you understand--”

Dux Neal’s eyes blaze, fury and pain burning bright against Sidney’s soul as he stares towards Sidney, clearly condemning him. “No, you certainly do not understand!” he cries. “Paul was-- a finer man than any other in the Empire. And this war, our relentless forwarding of borders already grown too large, took from us such a person, not by the will of the gods but by the folly of man.”

“Dux Neal!” Cautio Dupuis shouts, and a terrible ringing silence falls. It strikes Sidney in a moment that Dux Neal’s agitation is boring of an anguish not of a man losing a shield-brother, but of a man losing his… _beneficiary_ , as they say in the court. He looks _broken_ , and the stunned looks from the other lords to him suggests that this is perhaps a sudden revelation for all.

“Your Imperial Majesty, my most sincere apologies,” Cautio Dupuis says, face ashen as Dux Neal is escorted from the room by another one of the lords-- Dux Clune?--  with a hushed and hurried conversation pattering between them. “I fear Dux Neal faces an unforeseen difficulty, and he has misplaced his passions in this case. I assure you, Your Imperial Majesty, the like will not occur again--”

“Peace, Cautio Dupuis,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis subsides. “This is a time of great change for the Empire, and those not prepared for it shall indeed struggle. I hold no ill will against Dux Neal, though I do suggest he is permitted the necessary time to overcome his difficulty to prevent another such… scene.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, head bobbing eagerly. “Of course it shall be resolved, as soon as possible, so that you may choose to dine with us again without worry.”

The rest of the dinner is painfully uneventful, and Sidney’s thoughts are on Dux Neal’s outburst as he returns to his litter after the final drink. He resists the temptation of petty speculation over whether Dux Neal was truly the beneficiary with his mysterious Paul, or if the arrangement was in the opposite direction; though the court may titter and blush about such speculations about who penetrates whom, Sidney finds discomfort rather than pleasure over the topic.

More than anything, Dux Neal’s outburst was a sharp reminder that all of Sidney’s actions-- and _inactions_ \-- have such strong effects on other lives. Had he supported Valor Sedin more clearly, would Dux Neal not be bereft of his beneficiary? Who else shall lose loved ones because of him, his mistakes, his ignorance? But-- how foolish is he, to believe he can overturn the will of the gods? Sidney sinks so deeply into this thought, bending under the weight of it, that his feet carry him throughout the palace of their own accord. There is eventually a door, but it is not the carved and polished portal to his private rooms.

He knocks-- why does he knock? Slaves do not require such courtesies-- and enters. It is a relief to be greeted with the sight of his Humility awake and attentive, finishing off a meal from a platter, though it also elicits a fleeting wistfulness that Sidney does not examine before permitting it to escape.

His Humility is sitting up in his bed, a slight flush to his cheeks, and a mostly empty platter speaks testimony to the proper care that has been taken today. The blankets delivered yesterday still tangle on the Humility’s bed, and another pillow has been added to the head. Evgeni only looks up from the dregs of his meal as Sidney takes the simple chair from the corner and drags it over until it stands next to the head of Evgeni’s bed. Sidney sits heavily, and his Humility looks up almost expectantly as Sidney releases a sigh.

“Clemens Subban insisted to me that I must attend the dinners of court, and yet the first I attend ends in dramatics,” Sidney says. “I hardly see any benefit. Being social does not make one an effective emperor; it merely serves as a distraction from the true issues.” Sidney knows he is pouting; he can feel the tremble of his lip and voice, but Evgeni makes no mention of it. He must distance himself from the distraction of Dux Neal’s pain, for there is nothing he can do to change the way of the world. “I only open myself up to criticism that I can do naught about. Dux Neal-- I hardly _ordered_ his beneficiary killed in battle. Such is the tragedy of war, and yet we all act as we must to serve the glory of the Empire. To blame me-- to call his death the folly of man rather than the will of the gods-- you cannot ascribe such things to me! I am chosen by the gods, but not one of them!”

Sidney leaps up, agitated, and paces the best he can in the small space of Evgeni’s room. The slave still says nothing, dark eyes following Sidney on his haphazard route. His frantic movement is interrupted by a collision with the chair, and Sidney curses, stopping to stand it upright and force himself to take his place back in the chair.

“So. If the mood of the court is to blame me directly for the mysterious movements of the gods, then there is no purpose in my attendance to their dinners. I will cease them immediately, much to the benefit of all, and Clemens Subban is welcome to restrict his advice to matters he is actually capable of speaking to.” Sidney leans back in the chair, crossing his arms, and takes satisfaction from his conclusions.

His pleasure is interrupted by a derisive snort. “Coward,” Evgeni says, and Sidney flies onto his feet, incensed.

“What?” Sidney asks, nearly a growl, and his Humility looks him in the eye and declares, “Coward. Can’t take responsibility for court, for Empire, just say oops! It’s gods, can’t be me!” Sidney opens his mouth to speak but he cannot summon anything other than a furious, wordless noise. “You’re emperor? No. You’re little scared boy. I’m not kill you, but it doesn’t matter, you’re dead soon anyway. They’re not even need knife, just say mean things until you--” The Humility holds up an open palm, and then makes a sudden noise as he clenches his fist.

The Humility smirks at Sidney for a long moment, until Sidney can wrestle his rage down enough to coldly say, “Who are you to give advice? A slave, unknowing of civilized behavior, a beast of service. For you to think that you understand the complexity of my situation, of the court and the war--”

“You think I’m stupid?” Evgeni says, boldly interrupting. “You think I’m not hear everything you say, anyone say? I’m know same as you what happens in Empire. No-- I’m know _more_ , everyone gossip in front of me! They say, emperor hides, he’s not ready for rule, he’s _weak_. They say, what he’s not know doesn’t hurt him. Court does everything they want, and you don’t know because you coward hiding in room, talking to slave instead of court.”

There is enough truth to the Humility’s words that they sting, and Sidney grits his teeth, standing and throwing the chair at the wall, hard enough that it splinters on impact. “I have no time for the lies and manipulations of slaves who speak above their station,” he says. “I expect that you will be in attendance to my business the day after tomorrow, without any further commentary.”

*     *     *

Sidney retires in a foul mood and rises in an even fouler one. There was no rest for him in the night, only guilt and doubt chasing after one another again and again. He cannot deny the truth of the Humility’s words, but it stings to acknowledge his own fear and inaction. To accept the responsibility of the course of so many lives seems to be an insurmountable object, and yet he must do so in order to prevent more tragedies like that which Dux Neal suffered. A messenger from Clemens Price requesting a meeting does nothing to soothe his irritation, but he is the least onerous option out of those vying for his attention, so Sidney goes.

Clemens Price is practically lying in wait for Sidney, and the carefully neutral expression on his face drives Sidney to contemplate turning and walking back out the door the second he walks in. He knows that Clemens Price is not above leveraging Clemens Knight’s impish streak to gain revenge, though, so Sidney steps heavily into the room and takes the couch that Clemens Price gestures him towards.

“I have it on good authority that you have finally joined the court for dinner as of last night,” Clemens Price says, and Sidney nods cautiously. “I also have been informed that it was an event that proceeded less than smoothly. I am sure that you now see it is time for you to begin understanding the conflicts within your court, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Dux Neal’s outburst, while troubling in its own way, is in the context of the court a trifling matter; there are no great issues within the council or the Hundred Houses,” Sidney protests, and Clemens Price shakes his head, frowning.

“It is easy to mistake the illusion of compliance with wholehearted agreement,” Clemens Price says. “Do not think that any of the Hundred Houses speak words with a single meaning.”

“I am no child, Clemens,” Sidney says, nettled. “I understand the court and its machinations are no simple game.” The Humility’s words from the night before return to Sidney’s mind: _Court does everything they want, and you don’t know._

“Do you?” Clemens Price asks. “Do you understand the court after being born and raised away from the heart of the capital? Do you feel the currents of gossip, the power of betting? Or do you naively believe that your divine will is all that is required to corral the nobility and run the empire?”

“Certainly none of the Hundred Houses will work directly against me, though I concede that they have their particular favors and desires to fulfill.” He will not-- he _cannot_ cede this point. Evgeni is not correct; the houses are not scheming against him. It was a ploy to destabilize Sidney, and it will not succeed.

“What is _certain_ is that they will attempt to ensure that they will not be caught working against you, Your Imperial Majesty. Beyond that, nothing is certain.” Clemens Price’s eyebrows are drawn down, his mouth thin, but Sidney refuses to cede-- he is no child, unknowing of the individual motivators of men. Wine, betting, supple bodies, fine food: it isn’t difficult to find the simple pleasures that wealth brings.

“My council will continue to support my edicts, Clemens Price, as they are the correct actions to bring glory to the Empire. They will monitor their sworn Houses and settle any dissatisfaction with my actions.”

“As you command, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Price says, clearly ceding the point to humor Sidney. “I look forward to your position on such matters after regularly attending the cautiones’ dinners.” At Sidney’s guilty silence, Clemens Price adds, “Which I highly suggest that you make a habit of, Your Imperial Majesty. I am aware that I am not the first to impress this point upon you, though I am surprised that you have not yet found the value of associating with your full court.”

“I will certainly be evaluating the importance of these social obligations,” Sidney says with what is left of his tattered dignity, and Clemens Price nods. It is an unusual day in which he has been scolded on the same topic by both a slave and a clemens, and Sidney wants nothing more than to retreat and lick his wounds.

“If that is the case, then I expect I will see you at tomorrow’s chariot race. Can I interest you in a wager, Your Imperial Majesty? I have no doubt that you must have a favorite among the chariots, as I have heard you have a fine eye for horseflesh and the pairing of chariot and charioteer.”

Sidney practically limps away from Clemens Price, a considerable amount of money promised away on the results of the track tomorrow and an equally considerable piece of his pride still missing. It is tempting-- almost too tempting-- to return to his rooms and sulk, feed his misery over so many criticisms from those who support him and the impossibility of the task before him. He thinks longingly of Taylor and her willingness to go adventuring with him; he thinks of his mother and his father and the duties they solemnly carried out on behalf of those under the rule of the House of Crosby. He remembers his own misattention during the judging three days before he left for the capital and is filled with shame. Many years ago, when he had begun taking on the duties of the House, Troy had told him, _The highest duty that we are given as members of the Hundred Houses is to serve the Empire._ _Certainly we serve the emperor and the cautiones above us, as we support your Uncle Tobias in his lordship of the House of Crosby, but equally so we must serve those below, for they too are a part of the Empire. All parts are sacred, or none, and I have faith that the gods give us all their blessings._

The memory burns bittersweet on Sidney’s tongue, not just from the distance from his family, but for how true it rings to all the advice given to Sidney that he has been rejecting. He feels like every step is a stumble, a mistake, and his heart is heavy as he enters the palace. For the first time, Sidney doubts the arena and the choice of the gods. He is but one man, and the Empire holds thousands upon thousands. Even controlling the hundred of his court is too much.

Sidney is in full despair when he arrives at his rooms. A slave messenger from Cautio Dupuis waits outside the door, carrying extravagant apologies and a request to meet in the afternoon. Past the door, his Humility sits in his chair in the receiving room, staring blankly at the far wall, but even as a new wave of guilt and worry rises in Sidney’s chest, another subsides at seeing the slave’s good health.

The messenger trails after Sidney as he waits for a response, and Sidney is struck with inspiration. He sends a reply to Cautio Dupuis and a second slave off to Clemens Knight, and within half an hour both councilors are waiting in the garden as Sidney and his Humility are escorted in, a fine lunch spread waiting for them all.

Sidney greets them and settles, thoughtlessly listening for the cease in the rattling of the Humility’s chain that signifies the departure of the guards. When they have their privacy, Sidney holds up a hand to forestall Cautio Dupuis’ further apologies and Clemens Knight’s curious inquiries.

“It has become evident that there are significant gaps in my approach to caring for the Empire,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis’ eyebrows rise as Clemens Knight diplomatically says, “Your Imperial Majesty, such criticisms are--”

“Platitudes are not necessary, Clemens Knight,” Sidney cuts her off, and she falls silent. “I find myself in agreement with the evaluation, as it has come from several sources in addition to my own displeasure with recent events. As such, it is time to re-evaluate my interactions with the court in order to be prepared to move the Empire forward upon the return of Valor Sedin from the evaluation of armies. The approach born of my own unaffected thinking has clearly failed; I have called you here today to help me strategize my actions, as I have been reluctant to fully accept the gravity of my role. Given recent events, however, I must acknowledge that my actions shape the course of many lives. I wish to become more involved with my court, in order to lead to results that I approve of, rather than the results that happen through my ignorance or inaction.”

“We are your servants, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, Clemens Knight echoing him. “But may I suggest evaluating not only your interactions but also the court itself-- I am sure that there are already hopeful assassins hidden in the ranks of the Hundred Houses.” Clemens Knight nods in agreement, to Sidney’s chagrin.

“My heart asks that I do not suspect my court so, Cautio Dupuis.”

“Do not take it as a reflection of yourself, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says gently. “Even Magnus Imperator Stanley, most blessed is his memory, had lords with improper motivations.”

“Thank you, Clemens Knight,” Sidney says thickly through his gratitude. “And so I bring my most trusted advisors to tell me: where must I appear, to be seen or to be heard? And who must I examine most closely?”

“If Your Imperial Majesty permits, I would gladly take the burden of your social calendar,” Clemens Knight says, perhaps too eagerly for Sidney’s comfort. Sidney winces but nods agreement; even he, isolated as he has made himself, knows of Clemens Knight’s excellent reputation among the lord’s society. “You honor me,” she says happily, and then her eyes narrow as she thinks. “I will deliver your full schedule for the week later, but for dinner tonight you certainly must attend with Cautio Maatta and his cohort. He is facing his own doubts about the Cautionship you granted him, and a sign of your favor would do well. He will be a staunch ally, should you act now.”

“It’s a wise choice, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis agrees. “Several of his sworn lords will also support you strongly should you show your favor-- they are already quite devoted to Cautio Maatta, impressed by his strength of character at such a young age.”

“Then it is settled,” Sidney says, and gestures over a slave to send a message to Cautio Maatta. A comfortable silence falls as they eat, all clearly reluctant to spoil good food with ill talk. The plates are empty and they have settled back in their chairs when Cautio Dupuis lets out a heavy sigh and says, “To the unpleasant discussion, then. Who must we watch with careful eyes?”

“Unpleasant indeed, but I fear we have no choice,” Sidney says. “So I shall begin. I believe it is a foregone conclusion that Dux Neal has little interest in my continued reign, for reasons that I do not begrudge him.”

Cautio Dupuis winces. “He is a good man, Your Imperial Majesty, but struck with grief. I will continue to speak with him and bring him to your support; he is like a brother to me, and it pains me to see his self-destruction.”

“Even so, Cautio Dupuis, in this moment we cannot count him as my ally,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis nods, albeit reluctantly. “Who else must we watch?”

“Duces Staal, Engelland, Scuderi, and Hossa,” Hilary lists off immediately. “I have no doubt that they have already formed a cohort of their own. I have heard that they took great insult at their dismissal, with quiet hints that they are looking for more like-minded lords, though they have not crossed into the betrayals of the Ten Traitors with their gathering.”

“Dux Staal is especially dangerous,” Cautio Dupuis comments. “The House of Staal suffered the loss of its second-oldest son, Marc, in the arena, and Dux Staal and his two younger brothers seek revenge in any way they can find it. They are well-liked among the Hundred Houses and are rumored to have strong connections in the regiments.”

“Noted,” Sidney says, ignoring the sickness in his stomach. Past mistakes cannot be changed, only managed. “Are there any others that we suspect?”

Clemens Knight purses her lips and then shrugs. “I fear that we will have to continue to evaluate the circumstances as time passes, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says. “You have been reticent enough as to not stir strong emotions from the lords, but I am sure that will rapidly change. However, it is a comfort that in the highest echelons, among your cautiones and all of the greater and lesser sancti, I believe you have support.”

“Today, such support is but cold comfort,” Sidney says, and both Clemens Knight and Cautio Dupuis laugh.

“I believe you will grow to appreciate the situation,” Cautio Dupuis says, and Sidney has been wrong enough in the past few days that he chooses not to pursue the point.

They wander through smaller gossip until the messenger returns, confirming Sidney’s attendance at Cautio Maatta’s for the night. Sidney must rush to leave, as the Maatta estate is on the far side of the city from the palace. Such distance requires a long, boring ride in the litter, with nothing to focus on but the rhythmic clink of his Humility’s chain as he is walked along beside the litter by the guards.

Cautio Maatta himself greets Sidney at the door, shuffling his feet and bowing repeatedly as Sidney approaches. “Your Imperial Majesty, you do me a great honor,” he says, ushering Sidney in through the atrium and towards the dining room. “I hope that the humble spread we can provide will suffice, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I have no concerns otherwise, Cautio Maatta. I appreciate your ability to permit another guest at such late notice.” Sidney says, and Cautio Maatta is clearly preparing to brush off the compliment as they arrive to the dining room and Sidney realizes a problem. There is no ring set in the wall here, nowhere for his Humility to be anchored. Instead, the guards station themselves in the corner of the room, chain gripped tightly, enough that Sidney can see Evgeni sway under the force, nose flaring to breathe deeper against the pressure on his throat.

Sidney is escorted to the place of honor, Cautio Maatta to his right and Dux Bennett to his left, and as he looks at the table he realizes there is no food for his Humility, no chance for him to eat. Sidney’s lips thin; though he has been healed enough to accompany Sidney, Evgeni still requires proper treatment to regain and maintain his health.

Dinner is far less dramatic than the meal with Cautio Dupuis’ cohort, the steady conversation ruled and directed by Dux Lundqvist and Dux Kessel. The friendly jibes between the two elder lords keep the mood light and distractible, and therefore Sidney is able to spend much of the time stewing in his own thoughts. He is strongly tempted to order Cautio Maatta to have a simple plate made for the Humility, but Evgeni’s hands are chained together tonight, tightly enough that eating would be difficult. He wonders how to convince the guards yet again that the Humility does not pose enough of a danger that his hands must be bound when not chained to the wall, but no simple answer appears.

Despite his moody thoughts, Sidney does his best to laugh at the correct times with the lords and ask simple questions. Still, he escapes as soon as is polite after drinks are served, thanking Cautio Maatta for his hospitality. Dux Kessel follows Sidney from the dining room, stopping him with a quiet, “Your Imperial Majesty, if I may?” once they are out of earshot of the rest of the revelers.

“Yes, Dux Kessel?” Sidney says, plastering a smile on even though he aches for the solitude of his chambers.

“You have done Cautio Maatta a great honor tonight, and I assure you, it has not gone without note,” Dux Kessel says, shifting his weight as he tucks his hands into his toga. “Nor did many of the members of this cohort miss your actions in the ring towards Cautio Dupuis. If you look for loyalty, Your Imperial Majesty, you will find it here. Cautio Maatta is young, but the gods have blessed him with a fine balance and the true light of leadership. He is already a skilled warrior, and I have no doubt that he will become a skilled statesman in the wake of his father’s death in the arena.”

Dux Kessel surely means the final comment as a compliment to Cautio Maatta, but for a jarring second all Sidney can think of is the misery he could have faced had he not successfully convinced Troy to allow Sidney to take his place. Dux Kessel watches Sidney with evaluating eyes until Sidney can gather himself enough to say, “Thank you, Dux Kessel. I shall keep your words close; Cautio Maatta has shown great promise, and I take heart that his cohort agrees. I look forward to the great successes that we shall bring to the Empire.”

Dux Kessel nods, clearly satisfied, and excuses himself. While his litter bears him back to the palace, Sidney considers Dux Kessel’s words, gnawing over the motivations behind the comments. He ends up in a fine temper that he has been driven to questioning all, even those ostensibly supporting him, and the ubiquitous slave outside of his receiving room is the first to receive the brunt of his ire. “Send for a dinner platter,” Sidney snaps, and she bows and scurries off. His guards and his Humility follow him into the receiving room, and they are the next target. “Unbind his hands,” Sidney says, and the guards pause in chaining the Humility to the wall, puzzled expressions on their faces. “Did you not hear me? I said unbind his hands!” he roars, and one hastens to do so as the other finishes locking the slave to the wall loop. “Make it clear to the housekeeper that I expect a dinner platter here in my rooms every evening after attending to the nobles,” he finishes, and the guards bow and practically run from the room.

Sidney paces the room, growling to himself under his breath, until there is a knock at the door and a slave enters with the requested platter. He places the platter on a table and backs out of the room in a half-bow, and Sidney feels guilt and then greater anger that he has apparently taken to cowing slaves.

Evgeni is unaffected, thank the gods, and Sidney is soothed by his unflappable calm as he fetches a side table and places it next to Evgeni’s chair for the platter to sit on. As Sidney leans down to settle the table, he glances up at Evgeni and is arrested by the sight of a thin trickle of blood down his neck, below his collar.

“Evgeni!” Sidney gasps, dropping the table with a clatter and reaching out to touch the blood. Evgeni flinches away, but then stills and permits Sidney to wipe the redness up with the end of his toga, red shining bright against the gold cloth. “Who did this to you?” Sidney demands.

Evgeni shrugs, not even wincing as a second trickle of blood begins from the movement. “Guards pull chain tight all during dinner, and it’s rubbing on my neck. Always sore, but it’s collar, not meant to be nice.”

Sidney trembles as a red sweep of fury shakes him in his bones. He slowly reaches out with both hands as not to startle Evgeni and lifts the collar up from around the base of his neck. The skin is chafed, much of it already mottled with scarring under the sores, and there are pinpricks of blood in too many places, along with three larger open wounds.

Sidney settles the collar on Evgeni’s neck, takes a deep breath, walks to the door, and throws it open. “Bring me the guards that attended me today, as well as the captain of the palace regiment,” Sidney says past the knot of rage in his throat, and the slave runs. He reclines on a couch until the guards arrive, taking slow, long breaths to calm himself.

The two guards arrive, their captain standing behind them, and Sidney rises, gliding over to stand next to his Humility. The guards turn to face him, and Sidney takes one final calming breath.

“Do you find it acceptable to damage the emperor’s property?” Sidney begins, and the guards swallow, eyes wide and darting nervously around. “N-no, Your Imperial Majesty,” one of the guards stutters, his partner echoing him. “Then _why_ ,” Sidney continues lowly, “have I found my property damaged?” He lifts the collar, revealing the broken and bloody skin beneath.

“He is but a slave, Your Imperial Majesty,” the second guard says after a pause. “What is a sore or a spot of blood on a slave? I have done far worse to correct those that misbehave, for they do need a firm hand sometimes.” The man is beginning to smile, as if Sidney is jesting, and Sidney gently lets go of the collar before slamming his fist on the side table in anger.

“Is the Humility your slave, guard?” Sidney says, and the smile falls off the guard’s face.

“No, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“No, he is not. Have I not made it clear previously the standard of care I expected to be given to slaves, and in particular my Humility?”

“You have made it clear, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“And yet I find this treatment occurs! Do you understand my anger, guard? Do you see how my express wishes have been betrayed?” Sidney pulls in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out, clenching his fist until the urge to strike something subsides.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the guards mumble in unison, shamefaced.

“Captain, I expect that I will not see either of these men attending to me until they have learned their lesson elsewhere,” Sidney barks, and the captain salutes. “Also, I expect you to discuss with the Master of Slaves _immediately_ a new collar that will not leave my property bloodied. Until the new collar is ready, a healer shall attend to him each day, to tend to the wounds and prevent more. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!” the Captain booms, sweating nervously, as one of the guards closes his eyes and clearly murmurs a silent prayer. Clearly he expects the diligentes’ work gangs as his fate, and Sidney vindictively hopes that he will indeed experience at least that level of suffering.

“I hope this incident has impressed upon you the importance of listening when I speak, Captain,” Sidney says cooly. “I also suggest reminding your men of the importance of caring for my Humility in the manner that I expect. He is a gift from the gods to maintain the Emperor’s Balance, and you will not insult them or myself with your treatment of him.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Captain babbles, and Sidney waves a hand to dismiss them. They scuttle from the room, and Sidney turns to recline on his couch again before he sees the dinner platter and remembers the original intent of his actions.

Sidney carries the platter to Evgeni, settling it on the side table and doubling back to retrieve the goblet of wine. The Humility watches him, and when Sidney hands him the wine, he says, “It’s big fuss for slave.”

Sidney looks into his face, surprised, but Evgeni’s expression is as always painfully neutral. “As I said, you are my property, and as such it is my decision how you are treated,” Sidney says.

“Guard’s right. Many slaves beaten, hurt worse than me. Why it’s matter how I’m treat?”

“Because I say so,” Sidney says, throwing himself down on his couch. “Because you _are_ a gift from the gods, an important part of my Balance, and just as I do not mistreat myself, so I expect that you are not mistreated. Hurting you in this way brings no benefit, and so I shall not accept it.”

Evgeni watches him for a long moment before clearly coming to some internal conclusion and abandoning the conversation, bending over the food. He eats ravenously, and Sidney cannot recall lunch being provided to him as Sidney met with Clemens Knight and Cautio Dupuis. Sidney sighs, frustrated, but decides that he has roused enough ire for the day and that this matter can wait until the morrow.

*     *     *

As is the way of the gods, tomorrow brings more chaos, not clarity. Sidney is woken early, two hours before sunrise, as a messenger has returned from the battlefields in the east. He hurries through his morning ablutions and off to the war room to meet the messenger. Sidney waves him down as he tries to struggle upward upon Sidney’s entrance to the room from where he sprawls with exhaustion on a couch.  The man is run ragged, uniform in tatters, wounds wrapped in dirty cloth, unshaven and unkempt, and Sidney cannot help but wonder what he has survived in order to return to the capital. The healer that trailed after Sidney’s entourage immediately kneels down beside the man, unwrapping his wounds and whispering to his slave the items he requires.

“Report,” Sidney says shortly, a slave placing a goblet of wine at the soldier’s side, which he immediately drains and hands back to the slave to be refilled.

“The barbarians in the east continue to hold out,” the soldier says, face grim. “But no worse than they had before; the greater issue is that the lands taken ten years ago during the previous push have begun to rebel. We are beset from both sides, Your Imperial Majesty. Farmers are not soldiers, but they have weapons and passion aplenty. I come to beg for reinforcements and the full attention of Valor Sedin. The regiments are reduced to less than half their proper size. We are starving and helpless, and hope runs thin. Mutiny is on the horizon. Your Imperial Majesty, we are desperate for your support.”

“You shall have it,” Sidney says. “Valor Sedin will be retrieved from the training grounds immediately. Take your rest while you can; when the Valor arrives, we will have much work to do.”

Sidney sends a messenger to the training fields to request Valor Sedin’s presence in the capital three days hence: the earliest possible time, for it requires a day for the messenger to arrive, a day for Valor Sedin to make his dispositions, and a day for him to ride to the city. Until then, Sidney must make his own dispositions within the lords, and with Clemens Subban’s advice at the forefront of his mind, he sends messengers scattering across the city to all of his trusted council members requesting meetings.

The message to Clemens Knight is less of a request and more of a warning that Sidney will imminently be on her doorstep. She is waiting when he arrives at the temple-- she does take unexpected surprises with unexpected grace-- and ushers him with alacrity to her chambers.

“The eastern front is failing, and the claimed lands have begun to revolt,” Sidney says bluntly after they are settled on the couches around her pool.

“This is grave news indeed,” Hilary says, lips pursing. “It has been, hmm, well over two dozen years since we have faced an uprising from within the Empire. I fear the lords will not take it well, Your Imperial Majesty. More so, I fear that it will be seen as a sign of disfavor.”

“Then we must do all that we can to restore peace before their disobedience gains momentum,” Sidney says. “I have recalled the Valor, and I expect to send him out with whatever additional regiments we can spare from the training ground. We must turn our gaze to ourselves, and bring about the order that the citizens desire.”

“The barbarians will hardly forego their offensive when they believe they hold the advantage--” HIlary starts, and Sidney cuts her off.

“Do not think I am unaware, Clemens Knight, which is why I shall be sending out additional forces. It is obvious that holding the front will require less effort than to increase our realm; they will irritate us, but I am not sure that they have the foolishness to push to gain back land already scarred by war.”

Clemens Knight nods, gracefully ceding the point to Sidney, and says, “As you know, Your Imperial Majesty, I shall support you in your endeavors. When you request to the council the disposition of the regiments and the Valor, know that I will raise my voice for you.”

“That is all that I ask, Clemens,” Sidney says.

“Then permit me to ask a question in return,” Hilary says, a sudden passion in her voice, and Sidney starts, surprised. “Rumors ran to me this morning, saying that you are following the path of Imperator Lemieux and his first Humility, against all gods and nature. My sources are too reliable, and I so am forced to ask not ‘is it true’ but ‘why.’ Why, Your Imperial Majesty? Did you not learn from the mistakes of your predecessor?”

“Following in the path of Imperator Lemieux and his first Humility?” Sidney repeats, incensed. “Please, Clemens Knight, explain to me how I have crossed all lines of propriety with my Humility, show to me my actions that have gone beyond the pale. I have done nothing but care for my property as I see fit, to keep him fit and well for his duty.” Sidney gestures at Evgeni, but Hilary does not turn, her stare furious and intent on Sidney.

“Caring for your slave includes removing his collar?” Clemens Knight asks incredulously, and Sidney casts his eyes up to the ceiling in a silent prayer.

“At no point did I order his collar removed, Clemens,” Sidney says, trying to avoid sounding exasperated, though he is sure some frustration bubbles through. “I found sores and chafing from it, and I have no desire to see my Humility suffer the blood-sickness and die. I ordered the captain of the guard and the Master of Slaves to create a collar that would not leave him bleeding.”

“Slaves are hardy, and can survive small sores,” Hilary says, turning to look at the Humility before flicking her hand dismissively. “To my eye, he is in fine health.”

“And slaves die just as any other man does when he is left with open wounds for too long,” Sidney replies. “Perhaps your sources must be re-evaluated, Clemens Knight. I acted as any man would to protect his property; do not mistake my intentions for anything ungodly. He is a tool, albeit a useful one, and I do not intend to waste his life over misguided notions of the required suffering of slaves. That does not in the least mean that I will take my carnal pleasures from him rather than from a pleasure slave, as Imperator Lemieux mistakenly did with his first Humility.”

Hilary throws her hands up in the air, signing an invocation to her goddess as she lowers her arms. “Just know, Your Imperial Majesty, that the gossip I am told is the gossip travelling between the ears of the Hundred Houses. You will have to defend this time and again; I suggest you do not react with any passion, as it will be seen as an unfavorable weakness towards the slave and confirmation of your supposed dalliances, especially in light of your lack of use of the pleasure slaves.”

“Thank you, Clemens Knight,” Sidney says and stands, desperate to leave before he loses his composure. “I must take my leave. There is no time to spare in these days, and as always I thank you for your counsel.”

“Some days, I must give you a bitter pill, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says. “I appreciate your lack of violence in tasting it. Go forth and work with your lords with my blessing, though I’m sure you feel it is lacking.”

“The only lack I will condemn others for is a lack of honesty, Clemens Knight,” Sidney says. “Though it pains me now, your truth serves a greater purpose than my emotions. Without truth, there cannot be balance. Though I am sure I will appreciate your frankness better with some distance from it.”

Hilary laughs softly and kindly and waves a hand at him. “Go on, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says. “Your Empire needs you.”

He directs his litter to Cautio Dupuis’ estate, ruminating on the subject of slaves as he stares at the side of Evgeni’s head. The guards had been much more delicate with the chain as they had attached Evgeni to a ceremonial statue in Hilary’s rooms, and the tidy edges of bandages show beneath the metal, verifying the compliance with Sidney’s commands. Sidney idly wonders what Evgeni thinks when people speak of him so blithely in his presence, but if any question was ever born without an answer, it must be that.

Cautio Dupuis is waiting grim-faced at his door for Sidney. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he says before words fail him.

“Not all hope is lost, Cautio Dupuis,” Sidney says as they enter the atrium. “No great battle is won without great difficulty.” The saying was a favorite of his father’s, and it rings more true today than it ever has for Sidney. Regardless, it is nothing short of strange that he is reassuring a man more than twice his age, and the greater strangeness is the relief with which Cautio Dupuis accepts his platitude.

They settle in the receiving room, Evgeni and his guards behind Sidney’s back, and Sidney can’t help but let slip a sigh. “Even so, I find my heart also heavy with this news,” Sidney admits. “This brings no comfort, no relief for the regiments.”

“It is not impossible to consider mutiny,” Cautio Dupuis says gravely. His fingers dance nervously upon his thigh, though otherwise he does not betray his emotions. “To be beset by not only barbarians but also the citizens they protect? It is too much, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“So we must provide them with what they need to feel the might of the Empire behind them,” Sidney says. “More so, we must understand the root of the revolt, for without that we risk a constant return to this tragedy.”

“The diligentes must be involved immediately,” Cautio Dupuis says. “They will find the heart of the matter, for none know the pains of the citizens like those who fix them. Permitting the activities to be purely a military exercise is a prayer to the gods for trouble. The root of their unrest is most likely an issue that a diligens can resolve quickly and effectively.”

“Is there a lord we may trust enough to send out with the diligens?” Sidney says, consideringly, and then buries his face in his hands with a groan. To worry of alliances as good men are dying on the battlefield, beset forward and backward--

“Dux Hossa has a fine head upon his shoulders, but I would find no lord better motivated to succeed than Dux Neal,” Cautio Dupuis offers hesitantly, and Sidney immediately picks his head up from his hands and shakes it.

“No, Cautio Dupuis. Though I know you have great trust and respect for Dux Neal, I cannot condone releasing him into the difficulties of the battlefield, knowing the cause of his unbalance,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis sighs.

“Then I can only suggest Dux Hossa,” he says. “I beg that you reconsider in time the appointment of Dux Neal.”

“Were I in the habit of indulging the death wishes of the lords of the Hundred Houses, we would have far less politicking to discuss,” Sidney says with finality.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, resigned. Sidney fears that he will be combative through the rest of their discussion, but Cautio Dupuis takes his defeat gracefully. They are able to plan out which diligentes have the correct knowledge and are the most likely to agree to working in a warzone before Sidney is forced to leave to Cautio Ference’s estate for dinner with his cohort. He is distracted throughout dinner, Cautio Ference guiding the conversation adeptly as Sidney worries over the potential of failure in the east.

A messenger is waiting at Sidney’s chambers when he finally returns to the palace after the dinner. Sidney struggles to force his eyelids open as he flicks a finger at the messenger. “Valor Sedin will return the day after tomorrow, and requests an immediate audience with Your Imperial Majesty and the Magnus Sanctus of Iras,” the messenger dutifully recites.

“Make it so,” Sidney manages, and the man bows and leaves. Sidney collapses face-first into his couch and lays there for nearly half an hour before remembering Evgeni’s dinner sits on the table near his couch rather than by the Humility’s chair. He groans, dragging himself up to his elbows and staring at the platter. It taunts him; his desire to remain on the couch and permit Evgeni to go hungry only for the sake of his laziness rests heavily on his heart.

Without another choice, Sidney slowly shifts to place his feet on the floor and stands to carry the platter to Evgeni, who watches Sidney approach with bright eyes. Traversing the mere four feet back to his couch is at that point insurmountable, and Sidney slides to the floor, resting his back against the side of Evgeni’s chair. The tiny sounds of the Humility eating and the weight of the day are powerful drugs that lull Sidney into sleep. He startles awake some time later, unsure of what roused him, and calls in the guards to escort Evgeni back to his quarters before stumbling off to his bed.

By sheer chance, Sidney glances in the bronze mirror in his bedroom as he passes by it. He cannot help but notice that his diadem is askew and his hair, so carefully arranged each day during the Ceremony of the Sun, sticks up in a most unruly fashion. Through the veil of exhaustion, Sidney attempts to remember-- did he muss his own hair? Did he brush against something? But the thought flees from his head as it touches his pillow, never to return.

*     *     *

The next day is a similar whirlwind, more meetings with cautiones as Sidney attempts to shuffle up enough agreement in matters to call a vote and succeed. Cautio Dupuis, Clemens Knight, Clemens Price, and Cautio Maatta all promise their vote to Sidney by the end of the second day, and Sidney must roust only two more supporters in order to hold the majority and push through dispositions for the regiments, the diligens assigned to the front, and supplies for all. The arrangements are made just in time; Valor Sedin must ride the winds of the gods in his return to the city, for he arrives at an unholy hour of the next morning. Sidney is rousted from his bed and shuffled along to the Temple of Iras as soon as his staff has him vaguely upright and properly dressed.

Sanctus Zetterberg is something of an unknown to Sidney, and he worries over that fact as he is borne to the temple. The Sanctus took his dismissal from the council gracefully, offering polite pleasantries to Sidney on the few occasions they have encountered each other since then. Sidney has drawn the conclusion that he is something of a favorite among many of the lords, as there is a cohort that follows him, lords particularly dedicated to success in battle and therefore especially devoted to Iras. Sanctus Zetterberg rouses no conflict with the council, though, and Iras has always been a favored cult among the Hundred Houses. He seems to also be a favored ally of Valor Sedin, given the request to meet at the temple, and Sidney feels-- _uneasy_ , to say the least-- as he contemplates the situation. He wishes that propriety would permit him to bring Clemens Knight or Cautio Dupuis along with him, partly for his own sense of security and partly to even the balance between himself and two who appear to be allies.

His musings are interrupted by his arrival at the temple. A clericus escorts Sidney from the massive, blood-red doors to Sanctus Zetterberg’s private chambers deep within the temple. Both the sanctus and the Valor wait for Sidney there, and they turn to face Sidney as the door opens. “Your Imperial Majesty,” they say in unison as they rise.

“My apologies for having you awakened so early, Your Imperial Majesty,” Valor Sedin says as Sidney enters and takes a couch. The walls are paneled with dark wood and adorned with weapons, some edged with either rust or blood, but otherwise it is not overly discomforting.

“It is no matter, Valor Sedin,” Sidney says, both men waiting for him to recline before retaking their seats. “The Empire’s needs come above any of our individual whims. Tell me, how do we plan on this morning of challenges?”

“Valor Sedin and I have already discussed the morale of the regiments,” Sanctus Zetterberg says. “Settling their fears is paramount to success.”

“It is a matter of no small concern,” Sidney agrees. “And Valor Sedin is most suited to understanding the worries of his men. Providing them with balance will ensure the front is maintained while the diligens resolves the citizens’ issues.”

“So you do plan to send the diligentes in, Your Imperial Majesty?” Valor Sedin asks, leaning forward intently. He has clearly been run ragged, Sidney notices distantly; the Valor is dusty and hollow-eyed from exhaustion, though still sharp of expression.

“Yes, Valor Sedin, along with a lord of the Hundred Houses to support the diligens selected. The council has not yet come to agreement, but Dux Hossa is a favorite at this time to accompany the diligens chosen to assist the citizens.”

Valor Sedin purses his lips for a long moment before nodding. “He is a fine choice, Your Imperial Majesty, and I would be pleased to work with him,” the Valor finally says. “Your forethought in working with the citizens is a comfort, but in the end, the war room will stand empty until we have your promise of additional support.”

Before Sidney can answer, Sanctus Zetterberg jumps in, a beseeching expression on his face. “Your Imperial Majesty, I beg of you. I know that I am not a member of the council any longer, but in these times of tragedy, the favor of Iras is paramount to success. Permit me to join the war council to support the Valor and the Empire.”

Sanctus Zetterberg’s earnestness-- and Valor Sedin’s eager nodding-- is all the argument Sidney needs. A willing ally is a gift Sidney cannot afford to turn down, and clearly the two have trust in each other. “Sanctus Zetterberg, your dedication to the Empire is a tribute to your cult,” Sidney says. “In this time of great strife, you and any others who act with the Empire’s needs in mind will bring us all victory. You have my blessing to join the war council.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sanctus Zetterberg says, his face a study in eager pleasure. “Know that I serve the glory and the success of the Empire above all else. I will give you no reason to question my loyalty.”

“This is good to hear, Sanctus Zetterberg,” Sidney says as he stands. “Your devotion to the Empire will not go unseen or be forgotten. Now I must attend to other matters, my Valor and Sanctus Zetterberg. Make your plans well today, for I expect to call a vote tomorrow and have your dispositions the day after. I will join you in the war room once I am able, but do not wait on my presence to begin planning our victory.”

The Valor salutes, fist to his chest, as Sanctus Zetterberg gives a half-bow from his couch and Sidney departs to find more allies among the council. There are no few pinched, unhappy faces around the council chamber as Sidney presents their choice, but no lord is foolish enough to protest the majority vote. “Thank you, council,” Sidney says, standing from his throne at the head of the table. “The Empire will flourish under your support. Your approval to commit these resources today stabilizes the strength of our army and remind our citizens of the might of the Empire and the benefits of their citizenship.”

Sidney is flush with his victory that night, enough so that he decides that he has earned a restful dinner in his receiving room instead of dining with Cautio Dupuis and his cohort. He is just settled down to his plate when there is a knock at the door, which reveals his two guards for the night, plus four extra and the captain of the guard.

“My dinner does not require subduing,” Sidney says mildly.

The captain salutes before saying, “Your Imperial Majesty, I come with the new collar for your Humility, as you requested.”

“Bring it here,” Sidney says, sitting up attentively, and the captain of the guard hands the heavy iron collar to him. It is wrapped entirely in leather, not the softest lamb-leather of Sidney’s accoutrements but a serviceable belt-leather. The edges of the metal under the leather are not sharp but rather rounded skillfully, unlike the harsh pointed rim of the collar that injured the Humility. He rubs his fingers along the shape of the collar, imagining the texture against his own neck, but it feels gentle enough to protect Evgeni.

“Well done, captain,” Sidney says as he hands the collar back. The captain bows slightly before Sidney asks, “I expect you will replace the collar immediately?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the captain says. “Please do not allow us to interrupt your meal. We shall remove the Humility from your presence until the exchange is made--”

“No,” Sidney says. “You will remain here to place the collar. There is no reason to leave, captain, unless you are planning behavior that you do not feel I should witness.”

“As you command, Your Imperial Majesty,” the captain says, and the guard springs into motion. Evgeni is unchained from the wall and moved over to a more open area. The guards push him to kneel and then lie down, a guard firmly holding each of his limbs as another takes Evgeni’s head in his hands. Evgeni is surprisingly docile as the captain kneels down and begins to file open the collar locking ring, a continuous scraping that sets Sidney’s teeth on edge.

Finally, the ring snaps and the new collar is placed. Now the captain of the guard has a hammer to bend the new locking ring into place, and Sidney is dizzy as he watches the heavy tool swing so close to Evgeni’s skull on each drive. The collar is set with the chain reattached, and the guards let go of Evgeni’s limbs one by one. Evgeni still doesn’t fight, lying limply on the ground until they tug him up. The captain collects the old collar as the other guards return Evgeni to his chair, and Sidney dismisses them with a gesture before any of them speak.

He waits until the door is firmly shut before standing and walking over to Evgeni. As Sidney reaches out to touch the new collar, the Humility's face goes flat, almost expectant, and Sidney hesitates. Evgeni relaxes fractionally after a brief pause, though his eyes still seem wary as he watches Sidney, nearly unblinking. Sidney reaches out slowly, as if he’s trying to grasp the bridle of a spooked horse, and slips his fingers around the collar. The fit pleases Sidney, and he checks that the bandages under the collar are still placed properly. Sidney is careful to be gentle and move in wide, slow motions, but still, Evgeni doesn’t relax until Sidney releases the collar and settles back down to his dinner.

*     *     *

Three days later, as Sidney is returning from an informal morning meeting between him and his strongest supporters among the cautiones, the never-expected occurs. Sidney is stepping out from his litter at the front of the palace when there’s a thud and a scream, and one of his litter bearers falls, arrow sunk deep in his shoulder. The guards spring into action, trying to shield him with their bodies and his Humility, rushing towards the door as another contingent of guards begins to move, some joining Sidney and others sweeping out to search for the assassin.

Entering the palace is a whirlwind of confusion; Sidney is separated from his Humility and rushed to his rooms by the guards. They grip him firmly under the elbows, and Sidney is stable enough to look down and see that there is no arrow buried in him. The guard to his left has not escaped such a fate; Sidney can see the flash of the arrow shaft in the guard’s far arm, through the guard’s expression belies no pain.

The uninjured guard pats Sidney down urgently once they are into his receiving room with guards stationed at all of the door and windows of the suite, but Sidney is indeed uninjured. “Fetch a healer for him,” Sidney says, gesturing at the guard. “I must have the arrowhead to see the mark of the would-be assassin.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the guard confirms, and echos the command to the guards at the door. A healer and his assistants is bundled through the door, and he works feverishly to pull the arrow and stop the bleeding, with no acknowledgement from the guard other than an occasional grimace.

The arrowhead, once it has been cleaned and presented to Sidney, shows the sigil of Iras. “Sanctus Zetterberg?” Sidney exclaims, unthinking, and then curses himself. Many guards are devotees of Iras, and their loyalty to the emperor is unquestionable, but their love for gossip is equally as strong. “Fetch Clemens Knight,” Sidney says, holding his tongue against any further speculation. “Do not discuss any details of this event. Only make it clear that death is not near to me; otherwise, permit confusion. We must understand who is making an attempt for the Empire.”

Half an hour later, Sidney is still thoughtfully rubbing his fingers over the sigil etched deeply into the arrowhead when Clemens Knight is escorted in. Her face floods with relief as she sees Sidney is reclining on a couch, hale and whole, and she says, “Your Imperial Majesty, I am filled with joy at your good health. The most alarming rumors fly so thickly in the air that one cannot see the sky for the words travelling between.”

“And do the rumors whisper that I am alive, with my claim to the Empire intact?” Sidney says.

“Many of them,” Clemens Knight admits. “The few hysterical reports of a new emperor are not well believed.”

“Then that is not my greatest concern,” Sidney says, and stands to pass her the arrowhead. “Tell me, Clemens, what do you see?”

“No good news,” she says grimly.

“Should I suspect Sanctus Zetterberg?” Sidney asks. He feels obliged to pose the question, though it falls awkwardly from his tongue. Sanctus Zetterberg had seemed to take his removal from the council with grace, as he continued to act as a staunch supporter of the council and especially Valor Sedin and the war in the east.

“I worry to imagine that the rot comes from within the priesthood,” Clemens Knight admits. “It would be a grave omission to not evaluate his activities, but nor do I believe him to be the most likely assassin. Sanctus of war or no, we are not a breed inclined to skill in violence.”

“I do not believe it requires a particular skill to shoot my slaves and my guard, rather than myself,” Sidney says drily, and his heart jumps with sudden shock--

Indeed, when he whirls around, Evgeni’s spot is empty. “Guards, where is my Humility?” Sidney says, rounding on the nearest guard, nearly snarling at the flash of panic in his eyes.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I will send men immediately to fetch him,” the guard says, already striding towards the door as Clemens Knight says, “Wait.”

“Wait? Wait for what?” Sidney cries, frustrated.

“Your Imperial Majesty, we must first understand your strategy for attempting to draw out the assassin before we permit any others in this room,” Clemens Knight says sternly. “Every man aware of your condition, your concerns, is another point of leverage for the assassin. I regret that we must keep secrets, but secrets will protect your life.”

“You think that my Humility will be an informant for the assassin? Clemens Knight, you cannot believe that any citizen will break the rule of silence. You know as well as I that Magnus Imperator Stanley himself laid out the edict that no citizen, no lord, no man loyal to the Empire shall open his ears to the Humility. Do you believe that this assassin is a traitor to the Empire?”

“I believe that any man desperate enough for the Empire that he plans an assassination is not a man to lightly turn down any source of information,” Clemens Knight says. “If that marks me a traitor, then I hope to be a traitor that saves your life, Your Imperial Majesty. Your life and the fate of the Empire must be protected. Let us ensure that protection before any further action is taken.”

Sidney grits his teeth, but he cannot find fault with Clemens Knight’s point. He waves a hand at the guard before flinging himself sullenly back onto a couch. “So, Clemens Knight, you seem to have a plan already in place,” he says bitterly. “Please, inform me of my future actions.”

“I believe we should encourage gossip to our own ends,” Hilary says, taking her own seat and lounging elegantly, a studied contrast to Sidney’s petulance. “I believe the misconception of injury will embolden the assassin and flush him out, either through a second attempt on your life or through his own boasting.”

“Fine,” Sidney says. “I have sustained a glancing blow of an arrow to the leg. My healers are attending to me, but I must remain in my chambers for the near future, until the wound has healed. Does that suffice?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty, it will do quite well,” Hilary says. “I suggest remaining confined to your bed for several days, and then staying within your suite for at least a week after. Healer!”

“Yes, Clemens Knight?” he says, moving to stand near her couch.

“Healer, create a wrapping for His Imperial Majesty’s leg. I expect you to attend to him thrice daily until otherwise ordered.” The healer bows and approaches Sidney, and Sidney permits him to create a convincing dressing on his left calf.

Hilary stands when the fake dressing is complete. “Your Imperial Majesty, permit me to begin my investigation. The night is listening, and I wish to hear all it tells me.”

“Thank you, Clemens Knight,” Sidney says. “You are dismissed.”

“Excellent,” she says, and sneaks him a wily smile. “I have some bets to place, Your Imperial Majesty, on the amount of time before you are seen outside of your chambers. I presume you will be most cooperative with my wagers!”

Hilary takes her leave, and Sidney remains on his couch for some time, staring at the ceiling and stewing in his frustration, his anger, his fear. Eventually, a guard says, “Your Imperial Majesty, excuse me, but you must move to your bedroom--”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sidney says and stands, resigning himself to his bed and the boredom of waiting for news.

Surprisingly, his first visitor comes later that afternoon: Sanctus Zetterberg, accompanied by Clemens Knight. “Your Imperial Majesty,” Sanctus Zetterberg cries, moving to Sidney’s bedside and gripping his hand. “I cannot express my relief in knowing that you are well,” he says. Clemens Knight raises a pointed eyebrow at Sidney from behind Sanctus Zetterberg’s back, so Sidney demurs, “Thank you, Sanctus Zetterberg, though I must clarify that I have sustained injury.”

“Yes, I am given to understand this by Clemens Knight,” the priest says. “But by the kindness of the gods, it does not sound like a wound that shall lead you to your grave.”

“The healers tell me that with luck, I will not even have a limp,” Sidney invents, and Hilary nods, clearly satisfied. “I appreciate that you have come to pay your respects, Sanctus, but it has been a wearying day already. I am in need of rest; unless you have a pressing matter…?”

“This is no mere social call, Your Imperial Majesty,” Hilary says, stepping up to stand next to Sanctus Zetterberg at Sidney’s bedside, allowing her hand to fall to Sidney’s thigh. “I have discovered worrying information about your attempted assassin.” She squeezes his thigh, gently, and Sidney hopes that she is signaling that she has a plan, because he is blindsided, to say the least.

“Please, Clemens Knight, share with us your information,” Sanctus Zetterberg says, concern crossing his face. Hilary passes him the arrowhead, and Sidney watches Sanctus Zetterberg’s face intently.

Sidney detects something that is perhaps surprise or perhaps resignation. “Your Imperial Majesty, I fear I do not have a direct answer for you,” Sanctus Zetterberg says. “As I have expressed before, my loyalty is entirely to the Empire. It is common for assassins to request the blessing of Iras on the advent of their mission; so too do archers etch the sigil on their arrows, to bring them the blessing to fly true and find their target. There are many lords among the Hundred Houses who pledge their dedication to Iras, but your attempted assassin was not necessarily a dedicate. There is no better answer that I can give to Your Imperial Majesty.”

A curious flash of emotion passes across Clemens Knight’s face, and Sidney resolves to ask her of it later. For now, he says, “Thank you, Sanctus Zetterberg, for your assurances and your information. I look forward to any additional assistance that your temple can provide as we attempt to find this traitor.”

Sanctus Zetterberg bows and says, “We are at your service, Your Imperial Majesty. I will take my leave, to permit you to rest and regain your health. I look forward to your next summons.” He removes himself from the room, and Clemens Knight sighs and takes a seat at the edge of Sidney’s bed.

“I believe he is not speaking the whole of the truth with us,” Clemens Knight says. “But I do not know where lies the omission.”

“He was most sincere,” Sidney says uneasily. He would not have guessed any duplicity from Sanctus Zetterberg, just disappointment that his cult was implicated. There was no flash of guilt, no sign of evaluating Sidney for his injury that the assassin would have known did not exist.

“The benefit of avoiding the full truth over creating lies is that sincerity comes naturally,” Clemens Knight says. “Sanctus Zetterberg is often visited by many of the lords, and he is accurate in saying that his cult has a strong following among their ilk; I will see if I can discover who was unaccounted for this morning.”

“Do you believe that Sanctus Zetterberg was the attempted assassin?” Sidney asks. He cannot imagine-- no priest has ever before attempted for the throne, but nor is there a specific prohibition that he knows of, other than tradition.

Hilary purses her lips, but she says, “No, I do not believe that is Sanctus Zetterberg’s omission. Still, I do not think he was entirely ignorant that an attempt may be approaching. The arrowhead did not come from a true, temple-blessed arrow, but if the lord in question follows Iras closely, he would not have acted without a blessing. Perhaps he asked specifically, perhaps he asked vaguely but Sanctus Zetterberg suspected. Your Imperial Majesty, I believe that Sanctus Zetterberg at least suspects he knows the name, and has withheld it.”

“To implicate an innocent lord would be a heavy weight on a Sanctus’ soul,” Sidney says. “I cannot fault him if he is not entirely sure.”

“As you say, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says. “I am more inclined to be suspicious. Regardless, I will continue to press the lords for information. Look for me on the morrow, Your Imperial Majesty.” She takes her departure, and Sidney attempts to parse reality from half-truths until he falls into a trance of boredom.

He is stirred by a slave entering his rooms, bowing profusely. “Your Imperial Majesty, can I assist in any way?” she asks, and Sidney gives a short, testy, “No.”

“Please, Your Imperial Majesty, the kitchen wishes to know when to prepare a meal for you,” she begs, entering the room further to hover over his bed.

“At dinnertime,” Sidney grows. “There is nothing else I require.”

The slave swallows, clearly nervous, and continues in a wavering voice, “A-- and the healer, he wishes to know when he may--”

“Tomorrow.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, please, is there anything--”

“Leave me,” Sidney snaps, patience wearing thin, and the hovering slave squeaks and bows before running from the room. Sidney is exhausted from worry, that which comes both from others and from within the confines of his own head, and it’s been but half a day since the attempt.

As much as he wished for the peace of an empty room as the slave pestered him, Sidney finds that totally empty is perhaps _too_ empty after his long and solitary day. It is far beyond proper to summon a Cautio or a Clemens merely to entertain him while he fakes injury-- especially as they are focused on delicate inquiries-- but he broods regardless.

The obvious answer finally occurs, and Sidney summons a slave with a bell and makes his request. Evgeni is escorted in soon after, guards looking puzzled as they cast their gazes about the room. There’s no loop, Sidney realizes, and he gestures at the heavy chair standing several feet to the side of his bed. “To the chair will do,” he says, and the guards raise dubious eyebrows but think better of commenting. They fasten the chain around one of the broad legs of the chair, leaving Evgeni just enough slack to sit up straight without the chain pulling at his neck.

The guards leave, and silence rings just as loudly in the room as before. Still, Sidney is comforted, and he sinks into a peaceful reverie, ignoring all his worries about traitors and would-be emperors.

Without warning, Evgeni stands up as far as he can with the restriction of the chain and lunges towards the bed, hands gripping the chair arms so that it scrapes ponderously across the floor behind him. He just barely has the time to settle back in the chair, now within arm’s length of the bed, and assume a look of slack idiocy before the door slams open and the guards charge in.

“Your Imperial Majesty?” one of the guards says, sword drawn, as his partner stares accusingly at Evgeni.

“There is no matter for you to attend to here,” Sidney says, schooling his face into polite indifference. The chair is solid wood and metal and must weigh at least as much as a man, and yet Evgeni moved it so easily.

“But Your Imperial Majesty--” the second guard says, and Sidney cuts him off with a sharp, “Did you not hear me, guard?”

“As Your Imperial Majesty commands,” the guard says, shamefaced, and he sheaths his sword. “Are you-- can we assist in any way?”

“As I said, there is nothing to assist with. Return to your post,” Sidney commands, and the guards reluctantly turn to exit the room.

Evgeni is within arms’ reach of Sidney now, and he turns to watch Sidney intently after they are left alone again.

“Why did you do that?” Sidney asks. He admits a sincere curiosity; had Sidney given the command, Evgeni would have been immediately disciplined by the guards. Likely he would not have been slaughtered, Sidney thinks, but equally as likely he would have lost at least one hand.

A stubborn expression crawls over Evgeni’s face, mouth pursed closed, and Sidney sighs: yet another mystery of his Humility. To fill the silence, Sidney rambles about the condolences and well-wishes he has received all day, from the piteous and insincere to the terrifyingly overblown, including a trio of slaves warbling a horrific rendition of a Paxius song of blessing. Slowly, the mulish look melts from Evgeni’s face, and he even unbends enough to laugh at Sidney’s impression of the slaves’ singing, much to Sidney’s pleasure.

A knock sounds at the door and a slave enters, bowing over a platter of dinner for Sidney. She is followed by a second slave, carrying two goblets of wine, and a third, carrying a simpler plate clearly for Evgeni. Evgeni’s food is placed on the floor at his feet, and Sidney’s at the side of the bed by Sidney’s hand. Sidney waves away the slaves and frowns down at the platter, appetite nonexistent. Instead, he tips his head back against the tall, wooden end of the bed, closing his eyes. Sleep is nowhere within reach, but the peaceful darkness settles his uneasy heart.

Some time passes; Sidney can hear Evgeni eating, followed by the clatter of the plate on the floor. He is shocked out of his reverie as Evgeni roughly says, “Look at me.”

Sidney picks up his head and opens his eyes, jaw dropping in shock, and Evgeni takes the opportunity to learn forward and deftly pop a piece of bread in Sidney’s mouth. Sidney chews-- to choke on a piece of bread after surviving an assassination attempt is not how he wishes to be remembered-- and then says, baffled, “What?”

“Have to eat, keep strength up,” Evgeni says, stretching to pull off a bite of smoked fish. He has to lean awkwardly, craning his neck backwards to keep from choking, but he is able to deliver the fish directly to Sidney’s mouth without undue difficulty.

“Keep strength up for what?” Sidney says dumbly. Evgeni gives him a disappointed look, and patiently says, “Heal from injury.”

“But I am not injured,” slips out, and Sidney curses himself immediately. Evgeni freezes, halfway through chasing down an errant grape, and a scowl darkens his face.

“Not injured? Everyone say, he’s hit by arrow in leg,” Evgeni says, and Sidney cannot help but notice how his frown tugs at his lips.

“I-- we hope to catch the attempted assassin through a boast or a second attempt,” Sidney says, because in for a scale, in for the fish.

Evgeni hums, watching Sidney intently, and Sidney flushes under the attention and shrugs uncomfortably. Finally, Evgeni says, “Fine,” and stuffs the handful of grapes that he’s collected into Sidney’s mouth. Sidney chews indignantly, but when he has managed to swallow and open his mouth for an irritated reply, Evgeni is ready with more fish. They cycle through this several times, Sidney working furiously to chew enough to be able to comment, and Evgeni ensuring his mouth is too full to speak.

Finally, Sidney manages to snatch the next piece of bread from Evgeni’s hand before he can deliver it, and Sidney says, “I can feed myself adequately, thank you.” He feels the hand of the gods replaying history and he abruptly remembers, _I’m can feed self_ and _You have to treat me like child, feed me?_

“Can’t even tell if own leg is injured, and you’re think you can feed self?” Evgeni says. “No.” It’s not worth the argument, so Sidney suffers the indignity until his plate is empty. Evgeni is escorted out shortly after, and Sidney firmly places the incident out of his mind as he searches for sleep.

*     *     *

The next five days are an education is boredom; Sidney remains confined to his bed for two days and is finally let loose about his suite on the third day after the attempt. Clemens Knight visits him daily, never with positive news, and he occasionally entertains the members of the council cleared by Clemens Knight as entirely trustworthy. Mostly, though, his only companion is Evgeni, who has returned to utter silence and does not again attempt to feed Sidney. Sidney nearly dismisses Evgeni several times in a fit of pique, gut burning with shame at the very sight of the slave, but never gives the order.

On the fifth day, Clemens Price comes to Sidney unannounced. Sidney is reclining under the window of his receiving room, idly unrolling Commander Herb Brooks’ book of tactics without absorbing any of the words.

“Clemens Price, please join me,” Sidney says, inordinately pleased at the opportunity to speak with someone who is likely to engage him in conversation. Evgeni still stares blankly when Sidney attempts, and the guards are tight-lipped in fear of insulting him.

They gossip idly about yesterday’s chariot race and Dux Marchand’s unlikely but extremely lucrative bet before Clemens Price clearly settles down to the topic at hand. “Your Imperial Majesty, there is much concern amongst the court around the assassination attempt,” he says. “Some of the lords are taking your retreat to heal as a sign of weakness and fear.”

“The Hundred Houses will gossip as they will,” Sidney says. “Any man with sense will set them to rights that with my _injury_ \--” Sidney gestures to the wrapping on his leg with a wry smile, “I have taken the correct path to heal.”

“This I do not disagree with, Your Imperial Majesty. Of greater concern is that the lords who do not count themselves among your loyal allies have proclaimed that your avoidance of them is further proof of your cowardice. They say you fear too greatly that an audience with them could lead to your assassination.”

Sidney chokes down his instinctual reaction-- to grow angry, to shout about their own cowardice for hiding behind such spineless words-- and Clemens Price says mildly, “Good, Your Imperial Majesty. I am pleased to see that you have learned to think before you speak.”

“And still the many lessons I have been taught by my advisors are not yet enough,” Sidney says. “Very well. You are not one to present me with a problem without also having thought of a solution, Clemens Price, so please tell me, what is my next move?”

“Your next move is what you see fit,” Clemens Price chides, brushing back his toga hood as it slips over his forehead. “But many emperors have held audiences and permitted any petitioner to come to them. I suggest that you consider this route, until your lords have accepted your rule.”

Sidney frowns. “And in what ways have I acted in that they are not able to accept my rule, Clemens Price?” he asks.

“The lords are quick to forget that your will is irrefutable and born of divinity, Your Imperial Majesty. Your word is our guiding force, our law, and they have mistaken your desire for information as insecurity and an inability to decide upon a course of action. They must be reminded that you alone dictate the course of the Empire.”

“Then reminded they shall be,” Sidney says. “I will not tolerate usurpers. This _is_ my Empire and I shall run it as I see fit.” He realizes suddenly that this is the first time he has declared such so openly; the words bring worry instead of confidence, but he must act regardless of any insecurity. “Clemens Price, please let Clemens Knight know to adapt my social schedule to include audiences, and to assign someone to managing the petitions. I am sure that she can also see to informing the Hundred Houses of their opportunity.”

“It shall be done, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Price says, standing and bowing before taking his leave. Sidney patiently waits until the door has clicked closed, until he has counted thirty long, slow breaths, before he flips over and screams into the cushion of his couch. Once again he has fallen short, once again his own ignorance has defeated him.

Sidney sulks for much of the rest of the day, draping himself over the various couches and sighing heavily at intervals. He is on the couch nearest Evgeni when their dinners are brought in, and once again Sidney is staring moodily at his food rather than eating it as he should. His Humility is too far from him to be able to feed him this time, though, so Sidney assumes there will be no intervention should he choose not to take his dinner.

There’s a wet slap as a handful of oily chickpeas land on Sidney’s toga, and Sidney looks up, hissing in surprise and rage. Evgeni has a smug look on his face as he slowly and meticulously licks oil from his fingers. Sidney watches, helpless to tear his eyes away from the strokes of Evgeni’s tongue. “Yes?” the Humility says innocently.

“Yes, _Your Imperial Majesty_ ,” Sidney corrects snottily, perversely grateful for the outlet for his horrendous mood.

“You’re not have to be so formal, can call me Evgeni,” Evgeni says lightly as he finishes with his hand, wiping it on his robe before picking at the slices of apple on his place.

“You are _insuffurable,_ ” Sidney growls, brushing the chickpeas to the floor and staring at his stained toga.

“Oh? You think I’m worse than man who lounge around all day, sigh big like his life so hard? Yes, if you’re say,” Evgeni says with a snort.

“Thank you for your input, but my life _is_ difficult,” Sidney insists, putting aside his platter to sit up and turn to face Evgeni. “If you hadn’t noticed, someone attempted to kill me this week.”

“Yes, and you so badly injured from this,” Evgeni shoots back.

Sidney ignores him and continues, “I must wrestle with eighty-nine lords, the head of my military, and eight priests every day, not to mention the ranks of diligentes and arbitri that my edicts also command. I must ensure the prosperity of my citizens and the successful expansion of our borders without undue sacrifice.”

“So? You’re always do terrible job, yet Empire still is going,” Evgeni says, and Sidney gasps at how sharply the words cut. “Now you feel bad for you, because you’re still do stupid things but now somebody tell you it’s stupid. Yes, life so difficult that you have people who try and help you.”

“You live up to your title most admirably today,” Sidney says after a long pause, turning back to lounge and placing his platter upon his lap. Perhaps on another day he would snap at the Humility, fight for his pride and dignity, but today he is too tired and the words ring too true. “Fine, I accept your point. I shall refrain from any undue sighing for the rest of the evening; are you content?”

“It’s good start,” Evgeni says, and Sidney throws an egg at him. Insultingly, Evgeni catches it with a warm grin and a “Thank you!” and Sidney stares back down at his platter, now without an appetite for an entirely different reason.

*     *     *

Sidney's first day of freedom from his suite is spent trapped in the war room, much to his dissatisfaction. Valor Sedin and Sanctus Zetterberg, along with a dozen of the regimental captains, have well utilized the time since the assassination attempt to begin strategizing for the deployment of the new regiments to the eastern front, as well as preliminary plans for the front itself.

“Your Imperial Majesty, we ask for your blessing in carrying out these strategies,” Sanctus Zetterberg says earnestly after Valor Sedin finishes demonstrating on the sand table the front, the resupply chain, and the base of operations while the citizens’ rebellion is quelled and the barbarians are held at bay. “Iras will light the fire of victory in the hearts of our men, should you provide the hearth for him.”

Sidney turns to Dux Hossa, who has been naught but a silent observer throughout the discussion. “Are you prepared to carry out your duty, Dux Hossa?” Sidney asks. “You are tasked with no small endeavor; the expansion of the Empire cannot be considered without the backing of the citizens.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty, I am prepared,” Dux Hossa says with a bow. “I am grateful for the challenge, and all that the Valor and Sanctus Zetterberg have created has my approval.”

“Well done, my lords,” Sidney says, standing. “Yes, Sanctus Zetterberg, I give my blessing. Valor Sedin, may the winds of good fortune speed your feet. I have the utmost trust in you, Valor, and I look forward to reports of victory.”

Convincing the council that Valor Sedin’s strategy is correct is another matter entirely. Clemens Quick, Cautio Foglino, and Cautio Thornton erupt in an enormous shouting match over whether the resupply route is vulnerable to bandits, while Clemens Subban and Cautio Kesler insist that any further actions on the eastern front itself only invites great trouble.

Sidney restores order with a shouted, “Silence!” Wide eyes turn back around from their distractions to Sidney and he continues more quietly, “Council, this is not an invitation for a discussion, but a notice of action. Valor Sedin has made his decision and his dispositions with the support of the war council. I expect you to support his action in any way that you are able-- including, Cautio Thornton, informing Dux Engelland that I expect the bandits in his district are dealt with before they are able to reach the resupply wagons.”

Murmurs of “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” fly around the room, and when Sidney catches Clemens Prices’ eye, he receives a quick nod of approval.

The confidence Sidney feels from his deft handling of the council carries him through his first official audience the next day. Dux Staal and his two younger brothers were most eager to submit their request, according to Clemens Knight, and indeed they are waiting in the audience chamber for Sidney when he arrives.

The three stand as he enters and wait for Sidney to take his throne before sitting, though they do not greet him as they should. “Dux Staal, tell me of your petition,” Sidney says, and the eldest brother stands again.

“Myself and many other lords are tired of not being properly informed of the military actions of the Empire,” Dux Staal says rudely, his brothers nodding along. “We demand that the Hundred Houses are gathered weekly, to be consulted in the matters of expanding our glorious Empire, as is only right.”

Sidney feels his eyebrows raise entirely of their own accord. It is a bold demand to be informed above his station-- too bold-- but Sidney must be mindful of propriety, even if Dux Staal does not give him the same consideration. “My lord, I appreciate your concern over our military actions, but never before has the Hundred Houses been involved to such a degree in the proceedings,” Sidney says.

“And never before have we had a situation so dire as the eastern front currently is,” the middle brother sqwaks, though he is shushed by Dux Staal.

“My brother is rash, but correct,” Dux Staal continues. “A citizens’ revolt? Continued lack of victory over mere barbarians? Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, the title falling with disdain from Dux Staal’s tongue, “only with the support of the Hundred Houses will the Empire succeed.”

“I expect that the support of the Hundred Houses will be given regardless of this request, because I do not believe there to be any traitors in their midst,” Sidney says. His heart thumps wildly-- why does he fear this more than the arena, where the only weapons are words that cannot cut so deeply as swords?-- but he holds steady. “Do you believe otherwise, Dux Staal? Do you sense disloyalty to the Empire and to me among the Hundred Houses?”

“Marc did not die in the arena for the Empire to be run in secrecy, without the proper input of the Hundred Houses,” the youngest brother says. Sidney recalls with a start the eldest brother, a neat hand with a sword but ruthless to the last while in the arena, unwilling to accept surrender so instead he was forced to accept death.

On the heels of that thought is a far more interesting speculation. Their demand to better know the matters of the military suddenly grows two-pronged to Sidney, a move clearly meant to destabilize Sidney's position among the lords and sow malcontent-- for the Hundred Houses are surely not ignorant of Sidney's inability to corral his council-- but also another means of distraction. There is little for Dux Staal to distract Sidney from, unless-- could Dux Staal have been the assassin? The Staal family are known for being formidable hunters, and especially skillful with the bow and arrow. Sidney resolves to bring the topic to Clemens Knight before turning back to the matter at hand.

“The arena tests the worthiness of the tributes, and your brother gave his life in his failure to prove such worthiness,” Sidney says smoothly, enjoying the fidgeting of the youngest brother and the snarl of the oldest at his words. “I hope your petition is not born of our disbelief of my worthiness.”

“No, Your Imperial Majesty,” they chorus sullenly, and Sidney nods.

“Thank you for your petition, Dux Staal, but I will not be taking action. You will be informed by your Cautio of the war council’s actions, as you have always been. The eastern front will be won under Valor Sedin’s guidance without further interference from the Hundred Houses.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” the brothers grit out as they stand and take their leave.

Sidney sends a messenger to Clemens Knight, requesting her presence for lunch, before hearing Dux Okposo’s petition-- a request to allocate capital funds to repair his villa’s faulty sewage line, which Sidney also denies-- and Dux Bolland’s petition-- a far more reasonable request to provide a new arbiter for a town in his district, as the previous has become corrupt.

Sidney eagerly awaits for Clemens Knight to join him for lunch, and ten minutes past the arranged time she sprints into the room, toga and hair in disarray. “My apologies, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says as she attempts to arrange herself into something more presentable, tugging her hood up and smoothing her sleeves. “I was dealing with temple matters, though I came as quickly as I could.”

“As we all must attend to our duties,” Sidney dismisses, waiting for her to take her seat before leaning forward over the table and saying, “I believe I may have discovered the attempted assassin!”

“Oh?” Hilary says, raising an eyebrow. “Do not tease me so, Your Imperial Majesty. Who? And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“I believe it to be Dux Staal,” Sidney says triumphantly. “His petition this morning was most inappropriate, delivered insolently and clearly meant to distract me from my other duties, including the investigation of the assassination. His elder brother was defeated in the arena, and I believe that Dux Staal would be motivated by revenge and the desire to elevate his House.”

Instead of parting in shocked surprise, Hilary’s lips are twisted in doubt, and Sidney deflates under her disbelieving expression. “It’s a fine theory, Your Imperial Majesty, except that Dux Staal was one of the first lords I asked after. He was with ten other lords the morning of the attempt, gambling and gaming for many hours with no absences.”

“Were the lords ones who are inclined to give trustworthy reports?” Sidney asks, heart sinking, and Hilary nods.

“Cautio Maatta was among them, and he reports dutifully on the insubordination of Dux Staal. He would not hesitate to mention any absence of Staal to me.”

Sidney buries his face in his hands and mumbles, “I had hoped-- it seemed like an excellent answer.”

“Unfortunately, were the answer so simple, I would have discovered it already, Your Imperial Majesty,” Hilary reminds him gently. “We shall continue to investigate and we will find the traitor, I swear to you.”

Her words do not soothe Sidney’s unrest, however, and the rest of the day passes in a haze as his duties weight deeply on his shoulders, heavy enough to flatten him. He takes dinner with Dux Saad and his cohort, and his exhaustion is so great by the end of the day that his return to the palace passes in a haze, torch lights filtering into the litter in dreamy flickers. Sidney collapses face-down onto a couch in his receiving room the second the guards leave, allowing the pressure of his worries, his mistakes, his fears to push him into the cushion. Silence rings through the room until the telltale metallic sounds of Evgeni moving about interrupt the peace. Something brushes at the fine ends of Sidney's hair, and he twitches violently in instinctual panic, pushing up onto his elbows to defend himself.

Evgeni is kneeling on the floor at Sidney's side, leaning forward as hard as he can against the restriction of the chain, arm stretched out to its fullest extent so that his fingers can just barely brush the crown of Sidney's head. His face is turning an alarming shade of purple against the pressure of the collar, and Sidney slides directly off the couch and onto the floor with an ungainly thump in his urgency to push Evgeni back and restore his breath. Of course Sidney ends up trapped in his toga, and his prison is complete as Evgeni’s hand settles back on Sidney's head, firmly this time, fingers scratching gently at Sidney's scalp and palm warm and broad.

Any ability to control his limbs or his thoughts expires immediately. Sidney melts into the floor, contentment radiating through his skin, and prays to any god that listens that he not make an embarrassment of himself.

“I’m always wonder,” Evgeni starts, and then stops himself, hand tightening deliciously on Sidney's hair for a brief second before relaxing and resuming a gentle stroking.

“What? You wonder what?” Sidney asks muzzily after the silence stretches too long. His eyelids rest too heavily to lever them open, no matter how he desires to examine Evgeni’s face in the wake of such a statement.

Evgeni sighs, beleaguered, but begins again, “I’m always wonder-- I’m come to palace, first time, guard say I’m Humility now. Didn’t know anything, didn’t understand, thought I’m something like sacrifice. But I’m not dead, follow you around every day. Then I’m wonder, why he’s not beat me? Slaves must be hit, punished, this I know always. And… when you’re so nice when I’m sick, or when you’re get new collar for me, I’m think--” Evgeni stops again, breath coming quickly. At that, Sidney must turn his head and drag his eyes open to see Evgeni’s expression, a curious mix of vulnerability and fear and confusion and anger. “I’m think you’re nice to me, so I don’t worry or think bad, so I’m let you get close, then you’re use me for sex.” Sidney closes his eyes and groans, not in pleasure but in heartfelt sickness. Evgeni has seen so clearly to his heart; is his perversion writ so large upon his soul that a mere slave can sense it? “See? This is how I’m think, but you don’t do it, never think it, maybe. I’m not understand, not when you feed me, not when you’re get better collar, why you do everything. I’m just slave, worthless reminder of your enemies you win against.”

“You’re not merely my slave,” Sidney says weakly, and he closes his eyes as he feels the damnation of the gods upon his soul at the admission. “You were-- I don’t believe I ever saw you as merely my slave.”

“And yet, I’m still slave,” Evgeni whispers. His hand sweeps down the back of Sidney's head and cradles Sidney's neck, gripping tight for one terrifying, exhilarating second. Sidney doesn’t move; much like when he awoke with Evgeni standing over him, he could not begrudge the man’s revenge. Now, though, he sees his own thoughts with a new clarity; the illness that lives within him, the awful desire for a slave that should not be felt. Yet, there is not any inch of him that would accept his life absent of Evgeni, having known both with and without him.

Evgeni’s hand relaxes from around Sidney's nape, and Sidney rolls over to lie on his stomach, head cradled in his arms. It’s perhaps the only way to prevent himself from saying something-- regrettable. That Evgeni’s hand returns to sit softly upon the crown of Sidney's head is an unexpected benefit. With Sidney's poor luck, this new position serves as an invitation to Evgeni, who proceeds to sink his other hand into Sidney's hair. Put together, his hands cradle Sidney's skull from ear to ear. Sidney groans, now in genuine frustration, and rues the cold comfort that his empty bed will serve tonight.

*     *     *

The last thought haunts him all throughout the next day, and it’s only when he sees Dux Hall at dinner with Cautio Orpik’s cohort that a solution presents itself to Sidney. The most difficult thing, Sidney thinks despairingly, will be to subtly inform Dux Hall of his request. The next most difficult thing will be convincing Dux Hall that such requests are not meant for gossip.

Sidney hopes, deep in the blushing corners of his soul, that some subtle excuse will arise, that he can remove himself without comment from the table. The gods have no time for his hope today, though, and when Dux Hall excuses himself to return to his villa, Sidney must hurry to stand and call, “Dux Hall, a moment of your time.”

Dux Hall pauses, confusion writ clear on his face, and Sidney ushers him into the hall and down to the atrium as quickly as possible.

“Upon my achievement of the Empire, Dux Hall, you were most frank in regards to the needs that you may be able to assist me with, as Master of Slaves,” Sidney stutters, and Dux Hall’s eyes widen with comprehension. “I find myself in need of-- those particular outlets offered by those slaves groomed for pleasure.” Sidney despairs that he flushes darkly at the discussion of the most common of needs, but Dux Hall pays no mind, brightening with excitement.

“Say no more, Your Imperial Majesty!” he exclaims, entirely too excited to be assisting his emperor with such matters. “Of course I have already prepared what I believe to be an appropriate selection for Your Imperial Majesty, in hopes for this very request. I can deliver this selection to your rooms tonight if you so desire, Your Imperial Majesty, and we can arrange a schedule as well.”

“Let us begin with just tonight,” Sidney says, feeling more than a little weak in the knees. “Tomorrow is when tomorrow’s plans shall be made.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” Dux Hall says, shifting excitedly as he beams at Sidney. “Does Your Imperial Majesty have any particular requests? I believe I have done well in predicting your preferences, but of course I am happy to fulfill Your Imperial Majesty’s needs.”

“None in particular,” Sidney says as he feels the lie burn itself across his face. “Or perhaps, send only your-- your male choices.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.” Dux Hall’s face grows sly, and Sidney contemplates the merits of running away now before he must hear whatever comes next. Propriety wins out, and he has the distinct honor of hearing Dux Hall say, “I have no doubts that Your Imperial Majesty prefers the virility and excitement of a fine, strong--”

“Enough!” Sidney says, frantic, and Dux Hall subsides. “Thank you, Dux Hall, for your service,” he continues more calmly, and the lord bows. “I will be sure to provide my, ah, feedback on the selection.”

Dux Hall grins, and he says, “I live to serve, Your Imperial Majesty. I assure you, you shall not be disappointed!”

What Sidney truly feels upon returning to his rooms is mildly ill with nerves and convinced of his eventual disappointment regardless of Dux Hall’s efforts. Five pleasure slaves wait for Sidney in the receiving room, standing in a neat line with identical loincloths but not matching in any other way. They run the gamut of personalities and looks-- slim and coy, muscular and shy, short and sultry-- and there’s little to nothing actually appealing about any of them.

In fairness, they are all terrifyingly attractive despite Sidney's lack of interest; each is primped and plucked and oiled to within an inch of his life, but Sidney feels no passion, just a simple curiosity like a housekeeper picking out tomatoes at the market. One out of the selection must be the appropriate choice, have the correct firmness and roundness and so forth, and Sidney is hit with the flash of a thought-- going down the line of slaves and testing the firmness and roundness of their buttocks. He restrains from hysterics at the thought through sheer force of will, and on impulse points at the tallest and says, “you.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, bowing and looking coyly up through his eyelashes, and the other four file out. He is slender but not overly so, several inches taller than Sidney, and has a kind smile. As far as the choice available to Sidney, he does seem most appropriate, though Sidney is tempted to verify the pertness of his bottom before fully committing to that conclusion.

“Do you have a name, slave?” Sidney says-- it seems less crass to have a better address than ‘slave’ for one who shall bring him pleasure. The slave shakes his head, sidling forward to within the reach of Sidney's arm and tilting his head prettily as he arches his back.

“Call me what you will, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says. The slave is _presenting_ for Sidney-- there’s truly no other word for it-- but still Sidney feels no stirring of passion, of great interest.

“Perhaps we will begin in my chambers,” Sidney says, foregoing the name issue, and turns and returns to his bedroom without waiting for confirmation. The slave follows, thankfully meek and obedient as Sidney stands beside the bed. “Undress me,” Sidney orders, and he tries to ignore the crawling of his skin at the unfamiliar touch as the slave strips his tunic from him. The slave is attentive and gentle, draping Sidney's clothes carefully over a nearby chair as he removes each piece.

All too soon, Sidney stands naked, unsettled, and not a bit aroused. He wants to cringe, dismiss the slave, lie to Dux Hall about his satisfaction, but instead he gestures at the slave and says, “Strip,” before climbing onto the bed and lying on his back. The ceiling holds no answers of any use to him, and by the time the slave hovers into his view, Sidney is resigned to whatever this encounter may be.

“P-pleasure me with your mouth,” Sidney stutters, and the slave bobs his head, shimmying down the length of the bed to sprawl between Sidney's legs and look up at him, eyes worshipful as his mouth rounds out. Sidney is still entirely soft, and the slave takes his cock in gently. Sidney cannot bear to glance at the man, a sharp swoop in his stomach and guilt in his heart at even the thought of looking, so he tips his head back and closes his eyes. Perhaps it was wrong of him to ask for such a forbidden act, but some perverse curiosity pushed him, and now he cannot take back his request.

Of course the slave is skilled regardless of the deviance of the act, mouth working cleverly to convince Sidney's reluctant cock to hardness. Sidney attempts to empty his mind and focus on merely enjoying the sensations, but-- he is a man of weak will, and there is nothing to stop the images of his desire from coming to life behind his eyes.

Instead of this nameless slave looking up from below Sidney's waist, so perfectly presented and trained for the task, he thinks of Evgeni, unskilled and untrained but still full of passion. The slave is quiet, but likely Evgeni would tease at Sidney, make his blood boil before giving him release. Sidney finds his arousal there, growing hard and desperate too quickly. His thoughts turn from coherent-- imagining what Evgeni’s words would be, perhaps, “Not so imperial when I’m done with you”-- to scattered images of Evgeni with Sidney's cock in his mouth, looking up at Sidney with a challenge in his eyes. Orgasm comes quickly, a sweet relief made more intense by the fact that it did not come by his own hand, and Sidney grits his teeth to choke back the name he wishes to moan.

In the wake of his release, Sidney finds it difficult to be anything other than bonelessly relaxed. He has nearly slipped off to sleep when he hears a tentative whisper from the slave, a barely breathed “Your Imperial Majesty?”

Sidney lets a sigh slip between his lips and raises his hand as much as he can muster the energy for to wave at the slave. “Well done, you are dismissed,” he says, and it’s the last coherent thought before sleep.

*     *     *

He re-evaluates the experience in the harsh light of morning. Satisfactory, Sidney eventually decides, and attempts to think up the correctly vague way of communicating the idea to the Master of Slaves and ensuring the continuation of availability of the pleasure slave. It is not an ideal solution, but of course it is better than indulging in Sidney's more forbidden desires. If this shall prevent him from crossing the uncrossable line, risking himself, his position, and his empire-- it is not ideal, no, but almost anything is vastly preferable to _that_. So he will make it clear to Dux Hall that the slave was satisfactory, and to expect regular use.

Sidney assumes that the pleasure slave will solve two problems: one, the unacceptable urges will be quieted and dismissed from his mind, and two, his attachment to Evgeni will be reduced. He is surprised to realize that neither is true, both rearing their heads as his Humility is escorted into the council room for the morning meeting.

So-- if one session cannot cure them, more will. When Sidney inevitably has an accidental meeting with Dux Hall walking through the halls of the palace-- ”Your Imperial Majesty, what a surprise!” Dux Hall cries, but Sidney wonders to himself how long the lord paced the halls around the war room so as to “coincidentally” meet with him-- he abandons his script.

“Dux Hall, your choices were excellent, as promised,” Sidney says. “I find myself in a position to request, shall we say, repeat performances from my selection from last night.”

“Excellent, Your Imperial Majesty!” Dux Hall cries. His enthusiasm is worrisome, and Sidney is bracing for inappropriately probing questions about the slave’s performance. “I am here to serve, Your Imperial Majesty, so please let me know as your taste requires adjustments to your staffing and I will be most pleased to assist.”

“Of course, Dux Hall,” Sidney says, sending the gods a silent prayer of thanks. “Now, I must be going to lunch, my lord--”

“Yes, yes, Your Imperial Majesty, I am going along myself-- I don’t mean to hold you up--” Sidney is walking away, and Dux Hall shouts after him, “it is my pleasure to serve, Your Imperial Majesty!” Sidney raises a hand to acknowledge the comment and again raises a prayer that Dux Hall does not choose to announce more damning information down the length of the corridor. Already Sidney fears that Dux Hall’s parting comment is enough for Evgeni to suss out their topic of conversation, a terrifying prospect.

The slave-- whom Sidney eventually gifts the name of “Evan” to, for lack of anything better to refer to him as, as he still refuses to provide a name-- becomes a regular in Sidney's bed. As any good slave, he is well-trained, pleasuring Sidney with his mouth, or hands, or the space between his thighs indiscriminately according to Sidney’s wishes. Once, Evan arrives with a vial of olive oil in hand, and Sidney comes while prone on his back, staring at the flex of Evan’s back as he rides Sidney, simmering with fury at himself for his thoughts of Evgeni as he stretched Evan’s ass with his fingers.

Before every encounter Sidney hopes, _One last time, this time and then I shall be free of this burden_ , and each morning he says, _That was not it, but tonight, tonight shall be it._ Sidney's obsession over curing his perversion is fully interrupted by a messenger returning from the battlefield, a mere two months after sending Valor Sedin and his contingent to the front.

“Urgent news, Your Imperial Majesty,” the messenger says as he is led into the council room. “I bear a message from Valor Sedin, in regards to the front.” Surprisingly, he offers a folded piece of papyrus rather than a verbal report, so Sidney holds out a hand to accept it.

An arrowhead falls into his hand as he unfolds the papyrus, and Sidney's heart stops as he registers the sigil etched into it. The note is short, and Sidney is careful to not grip the arrowhead too tightly as he reads it.

_Dux Hossa attempted mutiny with support of first and second regimental captains. Mutiny suppressed; Hossa executed. Arrowhead found in his possessions. Please send further half regiment and replacement Dux._

“Thank you, messenger. You are dismissed; the housekeeper will outfit you with food and chambers for rest and any other need you have. I will have a return message for the Valor tomorrow,” Sidney says, shaky words falling from numb lips, and the messenger bows and leaves.

“Your Imperial Majesty, are you well?” inquires Cautio Maatta, and Sidney shakes his head to clear it.

“Yes, thank you, Cautio Maatta. Council, the Valor has sent dire news.” Sidney stands and places the arrowhead on the wooden edge of the sand table, Clemens Knight immediately recognizing it and cursing vehemently before gesturing a ward against evil. “Dux Hossa incited mutiny among the regiments at the eastern front. The mutiny was suppressed and Dux Hossa was delivered unto the gods by execution for his transgressions. The Valor found this arrowhead among his possessions. Hossa was a traitor twice over, my lords and priests, and justice has found him for his actions against the Empire.”

A murmur races around the room, followed by pious gestures to ward off ill spirits or to ask for blessings. Clemens Knight conjures from her belt pouch the arrowhead from the failed attempt and holds the two together to compare them. “The similarity is unmistakable, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says hoarsely.

Sidney looks deliberately about the room, waiting for each council to meet his gaze before moving on to the next. When the silence becomes stifling, he says, “Council, go forth and make it known that Dux Hossa has paid for his crimes. Let this be a warning to any who doubt my claim to the Empire, and that swift punishment will come to those foolish enough to attempt action against me.”

Most of the council scatters immediately, though Clemens Knight and Clemens Price remain, much to Sidney's expectations.

“Resolving the question of the assassin is cold comfort in the face of further senseless loss,” Clemens Price says once the last of the councilors have exited. “Your Imperial Majesty, I hope you have additional dispositions to make immediately to the front. To not provide your attention and support will invite disaster.”

“Clemens Price is correct,” Hilary says, crossing her arms with a sigh. “To have sent a traitor as the hand of the Empire is trouble enough; another misstep will cost us far more greatly.”

“I will speak with Cautio Dupuis immediately about Dux Neal,” Sidney says, resigned. “I trusted Dux Hossa would act in wisdom, and I find my trust misplaced. So I must rely on Cautio Dupuis’ recommendation in the face of my own poor evaluation.”

“Dux Neal is a dangerous choice, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Price warns. His arms are crossed and his lips curved into a frown in a rare display of emotion. “He is known to be one who speaks out against yourself and the Empire. I fail to see how his appointment will soothe the pandemonium in the east.”

“To be fair, Dux Neal’s loss of his beneficiary in war is fine motivation to resolve the uprising and the regimental discontent,” Clemens Knight points out. “Though I would not suggest permitting him to act without oversight from yourself, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“It is…” Sidney furrows his brow as he thinks, tapping his fingers together, “five days’ hard ride from the front, so I will inform Valor Sedin that I expect a report every two weeks, so that I will understand the situation and be able to respond. Dux Neal is a risky choice, but Cautio Dupuis has faith in his appointment, and clearly we have seen how a safe choice may not be so.”

“As you wish, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Price says. “We shall take our leave, to discuss with our own this news.” Both priests bow and depart the room, and Sidney must collapse into a sofa to recover-- deliberately turning his back to his Humility as he makes himself comfortable-- before he is fortified enough to step out of the room himself.

By the luck of the gods, Sidney walks past Sanctus Fleury on his path back to his rooms, and he is utterly arrested by the sight of the priest. Sanctus Fleury carries an infectious smile and a gentle air about him, and Sidney is flooded with guilt about his perversion in the face of the representative of honest love.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the priest says with a bow, and Sidney hesitates before stopping fully to speak with him.

“Sanctus Fleury,” Sidney says slowly, tasting the words and the chains of his guilt. “Our meeting is most fortuitous. I find myself in the midst of a sudden revelation, and your guidance would be a much-needed gift.”

“Why, Your Imperial Majesty, I wish nothing more than to assist you!” Sanctus Fleury exclaims. “Please, what counsel can I give? What troubles your heart that you must seek Amoret’s love?”

“Nothing I wish to discuss in public, Sanctus,” Sidney says warily, and Sanctus Fleury makes a sharp noise and strikes himself on the forehead.

“Such foolish questions I ask,” he says. “When Your Imperial Majesty is ready, I am here to serve you. Call on me at your convenience, and we will find you the answers you require.”

“My convenience is now, Sanctus Fleury,” Sidney says. “Let us proceed to your temple.” The eastern front is a distant concern against the urgency of his need for counsel. If Sanctus Fleury can give him any relief from his desires-- if he can cure Sidney of this distraction--

Sanctus Fleury looks shocked, but he bows and says, “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. I shall meet with you at my private quarters.”

Sanctus Fleury must hike up his tunic and run, for he handily beats Sidney's litter to the temple. Sidney turns to his guards as he steps within the front doors, commanding, “Remain here with my Humility. I will return when I have finished my discussion with Sanctus Fleury.”

“But Your Imperial Majesty--” a guard protests, stopping as Sidney cuts him off with a stare.

“Some counsel must be given in private,” Sidney says, turning so that he can avoid the curious stares of the Humility and the guards. Thankfully, a clericus is waiting there to escort him, and they pass deeper into the temple before his escort can register further objections.

Sanctus Fleury’s chambers are not overly saturated with the symbols of love, to Sidney's surprise, but rather consist of a comfortable room with an inordinate number of overstuffed couches and large, squishy pillows. Sidney takes the couch that Sanctus Fleury gestures to, and must gather his wits and his courage for several long moments before speaking.

“I find myself suffering a… forbidden longing,” Sidney admits lowly, staring at the ceiling as he feels shame suffuse his face. “That which should not be loved, that which cannot return such affections, is what captures me so strongly. Why have the gods such cruelty? I did not ask for this-- wrongness, this curse upon my life. And yet it plagues me regardless, chasing me in the dark of the night and the light of the day.”

He can see from the corner of his eye the alarmed look on Sanctus Fleury’s face. There is a long, damning pause as Sanctus Fleury clearly gathers his thoughts. “The gods are mysterious and capricious,” Sanctus Fleury eventually says, slow and measured. “We cannot guess their intentions, or know if they act in cruelty or in other ways. I would advise-- I know that you must be abstaining from fulfilling this longing, Your Imperial Majesty, and you know in your deepest soul that you act correctly. These trials come with great reward, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I abstain, but-- not fully,” Sidney murmurs. “Though I have arranged pleasure slaves, I cannot-- my need-- there is no completion lest I close my eyes and bring to mind my true desires,” he admits hopelessly. “The sickness runs deep in me, Sanctus Fleury.”

The priest stands, moving to the side of Sidney's couch and kneeling so that he can grasp Sidney's hand. “Your Imperial Majesty, the strength of will you display in managing your urges is not to be dismissed,” he says earnestly. “Thought I do not know what tragedy you avoid, know that I believe you are acting with grace in a difficult time. The slaves are there for this purpose, among others, and you have chosen the route to preserve your standing with the gods.”

Sidney nods, swallowing against the struggle of guilty admission. He nearly tells Sanctus Fleury, _I desire my slave, my Humility_ , but he cannot face his own filth in the face of Sanctus Fleury’s kind, encouraging expression.

“Thank you, Sanctus Fleury,” he whispers instead.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I am honored that you confide your fears in me,” Sanctus Fleury says. “My trust is not to be questioned; our discussion will not become fodder for gossip. I only ask in return that you speak with me any time that doubt clouds your soul. I am here to support you, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Sidney throws Evan out from his room in a fit of pique that night. With Sanctus Fleury’s words still ringing loudly in his mind, Sidney attempts to remain in the moment with Evan, to not close his eyes and think of that which he should not. Despite Evan’s best coaxing, no passion stirs Sidney's loins, and Sidney wails, “Get out, get _out_ ,” Evan springing rapidly through the door afterward.

Thankfully, the next days are frantic with preparations to send Dux Neal and reinforcements to the front, and Sidney is mostly able to put Evan from his mind, as well as avoid Dux Hall. Finally, the dispositions are made, Dux Neal has been vigorously coached by Cautio Dupuis, and it is time for the caravan to the front to be sent off.

Dux Neal’s last obligation before his departure is to meet with Sidney, and he stands in the center of the audience chamber, fidgeting awkwardly under Sidney's eye. Though his limbs move restlessly, his gaze is steady and sharp on Sidney. “Your Imperial Majesty, I ask for your blessing on my departure, to bring success to this venture and to the Empire,” Dux Neal says dutifully.

“May fair winds and good fortune drive you to victory,” Sidney replies, the exchange as ancient as the Empire. “Dux Neal, you enter a difficult situation. Dux Hossa acted as a traitor to the Empire, removing the faith of the regiments and the citizens in the Empire. You must regain their loyalty and resolve the root of their unhappiness. The Empire asks much of you, Dux Neal; it cannot afford further mistakes.”

“It is an honor to serve the Empire,” Dux Neal says. Sidney searches his expression for any duplicity, but the lord looks sincere, albeit as downtrodden as always. “To prevent further unnecessary loss of life is my greatest goal, Your Imperial Majesty. I will serve well and with loyalty to the Empire.”

“Then come, Dux Neal, the hour of your departure is soon.” The audience chamber is two short turns from the great courtyard where the troops are assembling. Cautio Dupuis waits there-- unsurprising, given his desire for Dux Neal to find success where Dux Hossa did not-- but more surprising is the presence of Sanctus Zetterberg, standing at the flank of Dux Neal’s horse.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Sanctus Zetterberg greets with a bow and then turns to Dux Neal. “Dux Neal, I have come bearing the blessings of Iras.” He approaches Dux Neal and grips him by the bicepses, throwing his head back to invoke the ecstasy of Iras.

Sidney politely turns away from the benediction and tips forward to speak into Cautio Dupuis’ ear. “I hope he is ready, my lord,” Sidney says, and Cautio Dupuis nods vigorously.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I would swear my life on it,” he says feverently. “Dux Neal will succeed where Dux Hossa fell to temptation. He will serve dutifully and loyally to yourself and the Empire.”

“Do not forget, Cautio Dupuis, I am myself no different from the Empire,” Sidney says. “That mistaken separation was Dux Hossa’s downfall.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis agrees, and they turn back to Dux Neal, for Sanctus Zetterberg has finished his blessing with the ritual request, a shouted, “Vanquish our enemies! Take our victory!”

Dux Neal mounts his horse and sketches a half-bow to Sidney. Sidney raises his hand in acknowledgement, and the captain of the regiment shouts an order to his men. The courtyard empties slowly, the kick of dust by the caravan turning the late afternoon light into the spears of Solus.

“And now we must wait,” Cautio Dupuis says, and Sidney wonders in the privacy of his own mind if waiting was ever this busy for any other emperor.

*     *     *

Sidney manages to abstain from his guilty habit of pleasure slaves until the day of the Winter Solstice a week later. Clemens Quick had demanded a special audience with Sidney in advance of the ceremonies of the holiday, and while Sidney expected no good of it-- the priest had been vocal within the court about the perceived slight of Sidney favoring Lunat and Solus over Aquare and his own cult, Terrias-- he hadn’t expected it to go as spectacularly poorly as it did.

As with many of Sidney's recent disasters, it began innocuously. Clemens Quick was polite upon entering the audience chamber, bowing and saying a short, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Please, Clemens Quick, make yourself comfortable,” Sidney says, gesturing to the couch set up on the step beneath his throne. Clemens Quick settles into the seat quickly and adopts an expression of contemplation. The silence between them stretches out, Clemens Quick apparently content without comment. Sidney knows that Quick is looking for weakness, for an opening, and he can do nothing else but desperately hope that he will not provide it.

After several long minutes have droned on, Sidney caves and says, “Clemens Quick, please, tell me of your concerns.”

“Do you ask in sincerity, Your Imperial Majesty?” Clemens Quick asks. “Or do you ask for mere duty?”

Sidney resists the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious bait and says, “I ask in sincerity, of course. Harmony among the gods and their representatives on earth are necessary for the Empire’s prosperity. I desire nothing more than peace in each divine balance.”

“Do you? Then why do you ignore Aquare and Terrias? Why do you neglect half of the Greater Sancti in favor of those who bow and scrape and follow your every whim?” Clemens Quick swells with indignance, pounding his fist upon the arm of his couch.

Sidney nearly chokes as he restrains his laughter at Clemens Quick’s obvious maneuvering. “Neglect? Clemens Quick, I do not understand what of my actions have led you to the belief that I am neglecting half of the Greater Gods.”

“You consult only Clemens Price and Clemens Knight on matters of state and dismiss the concerns of myself and Clemens Jokinen; how is this not a matter of favor?”

“I consult Clemens Knight for she is my Magnus Clemens, and to respect her position is to give her my ear. Clemens Price comes willingly to me, to impart his own perspective and advice. I have never turned away a request for an audience, be it a formal audience or not, Clemens Quick, and yet this is the first time I have spoken with you.” Sidney feels his teeth begin to grind, but he freezes a pleasant expression on his face.

“Regardless, it is _your_ responsibility to maintain the balance, Your Imperial Majesty, and yet you have not gone to this effort.” Clemens Quick sniffs derisively; Sidney suddenly recalls a particularly odious citizen that often petitioned before Arbiter Patric over imagined slights with his neighbors. The resemblance is particularly uncanny, and he suspects the Arbiter’s strategy of amiable ignorance will be of use in this situation as it was in that.

“You are a member of the council, Clemens Quick, as is Clemens Jokinen, which places you in equal balance to the gods. Again, I fail to see the issue.”

“Clearly it does not balance the scales, Your Imperial Majesty, because you seek the council of the Sancti unevenly outside of the council room, and dare I say it, within the council room as well.”

Despite Sidney's best efforts, the conversation runs in maddening circles for nearly half an hour, Clemens Quick insisting on Sidney's attention being misplaced in flagrant denial of any evidence to the contrary that Sidney presents. Sidney is in a fine temper by the time he is forced to send Clemens Quick away and pettily contemplating removing him from the council just to make clear exactly what a lack of favor looks like.

With the winds of the gods at his heels, Sidney hurries towards the Temple of the Sun and skids to a stop next to Clemens Knight just as the golden bell atop the temple bellows warmly across the rooftops. She glares at his lateness, which he choses to earnestly ignore by focusing on the clericus standing before the temple doors.

“Hear us! Hear us!” cries the clericus, clad in the blackened tunic and toga of the Empty Moon just as Clemens Knight is. “We stand before the Temple of the Sun, supplicants asking for the Scales of the Sky. Deliver unto Lunat her due, for she reigns supreme on the longest night, the night before us.”

Clemens Price emerges from between the copper doors, black toga draped over his blue tunic and carrying the Scales of the Sky, golden arm balanced in his right palm and silver in his left. Carefully he descends the step, not allowing the stem to waver, and extends the Scale to Clemens Knight, who grips it about the base, allowing the scales to tip. The silver cup lies low and heavy from the sphere of ice it holds, perfect and clear and too great in comparison to the golden cup holding a burnt wick and a flat sea of frozen wax.

“Citizens! Witness the return of the Scales of the Sky to Lunat! Her sacred light shall shine upon it within the sanctity of her temple as the balance is righted.” The clerici ring tiny silver bells and scatter green-black mistletoe as Sidney and Clemens Price flank Clemens Knight and follow her, slow measured paces on the cobbles of Via Stanley towards the Temple of the Moon. The lords of the Hundred Houses follow with citizens freely mingling among them as all become equal in the eyes of the gods.

It’s a sharply different scene from the last Winter Solstice Sidney participated in. His mother loves the Solstices; she was always the first to stand before the temple in anticipation of the scales, though the devotees that gathered around her were no lords of the Hundred Houses but mere butchers and bakers and farmers. The scale she watched with shining eyes was not the massive and elaborate relic that Clemens Knight balances in her arms, but a tiny thing with a base small enough to fit neatly within Troy’s palm.

As they enter the Temple of the Moon, Sidney follows in his mind’s eye his father’s path from last winter. To the podium, behind Sun and Moon, and kneeling before the scales as the lords jostle in the hall behind Sidney, jockeying for the best position.

Clemens Knight makes her petition to the moon, but Sidney hears not a word of it. Instead, he repeats to himself the words he last heard his father speak and are now Sidney's duty to say on behalf of the Empire. His hands tremble where they rest against his thighs, and he thinks, _My citizens miss the kiss of summer-- no, the warmth of summer-- my citizens miss the warmth of summer--_ He thinks of his mother’s face glowing in the candle-light as Troy spoke those same words, and he thinks of her love and belief. He must do well for her. _My citizens miss the warmth of summer--_

Sidney stands as bells chime and steps towards the scales in tandem with Clemens Price, swallowing as sweat breaks out across his forehead. He feels his voice tremble as he says into the echoing hall, “My citizens miss the warmth of summer and the kiss of the sun. My lands desire growth instead of slumber. Give us the energy we need to bring you glory, Sol-- Lunat,” he corrects falteringly as Clemens Price levels a chilling stare at him. The half-spoken name thuds loudly into the quiet of the hall, and Sidney is sick with misery as he hurriedly makes a tiny ward against evil, thinking a frantic _Forgive me, goddess. Forgive me, mother_ , before continuing. “Return to us the balance, and your name shall be sung eternal.”

Clemens Price steps forward to bargain on behalf of Solus and Sidney retreats, releasing a long breath as sickness roils in his stomach. Has he offended the goddess beyond repair? Will she withhold the blessing and give poor favor to the Empire until the Summer Solstice?

He waits, head bowed in shame, until Clemens Knight concedes to Clemens Price and gestures Sidney forward. She hands him a sacrifice of mistletoe as Clemens Price offers a lit candle, and Sidney shares the flame until the dark leaves catch in a smoky bloom. When he drops the sacrifice upon the ice in the Moon scale, Sidney's heart pounds for a long moment as the flame gutters, but it catches. The lords cheer as the ice flames, tipping the scales back to balance as the excess water drips messily from the scale.

Clemens Knight chants the final prayer before dismissing the assembly, and Sidney hurries from the hall back to the palace, though it earns him no reprieve from the court, as Dux Kessel catches him before he can break free and ushers him to the banquet hall.

Sidney attempts to hide his irritation throughout the following feast, but the press of every Dux and Ducissa and eligible child of each house, along with the Greater and Lesser Mercies _and_ every diligentes or arbitri of high importance that could wrangle an invitation, is too much to return to him kindness. The crush is overwhelming, even as it spreads between the banquet chamber and the great hall, and Sidney carefully mingles with the groups least inclined to trouble or political talk and prays that he can hold his tongue before he speaks too rashly.

His foul mood only increases as he catches his mind wandering as Dux Kasperi and Cautio Maatta merrily argue over a bet that somehow involves last week’s chariot race, this banquet, and the flashy Dux Lundqvist’s toga for the night. Instead of asking after the particulars of the bet, Sidney thinks of dark eyes and the intense pleasure that his Hum-- _no_ , his pleasure slave, brought him. He attempts to refocus on the discussion, but it has veered wildly into some string of references to the misbegotten youth that the two lords apparently shared, and Sidney excuses himself with a gritted, “Please, my lords, I must attend--” that Cautio Maatta merrily waves off.

Once again, the hands of the gods move mortals in Sidney's favor, and before he can escape to a garden for a refreshing breath of the chill winter air, he sees Dux Hall laughing with his favored companions, Dux Nugent and Dux Eberle. Perhaps his earlier thoughts were a suggestion from the gods as recompense for the difficulties of the day. “Dux Hall, if I may have a moment of your time?” Sidney leans in to request, too inspired to think better of his desires, and the three bow profusely, clearly taken by surprise.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. Here, or--?” Dux Hall’s eyes dart about, a parody of subtlety, and Sidney says, “It has grown quite warm indoors; I would enjoy a walk about the garden to refresh myself.”

“Then we shall go there,” Dux Hall says, and turns to Dux Nugent and says, “You two had better still be here when I return-- no running off without me!”

“What kind of squirrelly bastard do you take me for?” Dux Eberle shouts gleefully at their backs, and Dux Hall returns, “The one that gave me a thirty-year-old slave instead of two fifteen-year-olds!” He aims a sheepish glance at Sidney as they walk to the garden, and begins to say, “My apologies, Your Imperial Majesty--”

“No apologies needed,” Sidney says, waving off the words, and the cool air hits them with a slap as they enter the garden. Sidney takes a deep breath, enjoying the sweet burn of the chill in his lungs.

“Please excuse my ignorance, Your Imperial Majesty, but I do not know why you have requested my presence,” Dux Hall says. “If you are disappointed in the pleasure slaves, I apologize and promise that any issues will be remedied--”

“Not disappointed, per se, Dux Hall,” Sidney says, casting his gaze up to the clear sky and begging the waning moon for her peace to enter his wildly-thumping heart. “I have just realized that my needs can be better served.”

“How may I see to your pleasure, Your Imperial Majesty?” Dux Hall asks eagerly, instantly flipping from contrite to accommodating.

“The previous slave, he was-- adequate in many ways, Dux Hall, and a testament to your training. But I found that-- his visage was-- perhaps not what I wished for,” Sidney stutters out. “He was of an acceptable height, though perhaps even a bit taller would be desirable, but his hair and eyes too light. He was-- I prefer a thin strength over, ah, any particular roundness--” even staring at the cool ruffles of clouds against the dark sky cannot overcome Sidney's embarrassment and shame from the words he has just spoken.

“And his endowment, Your Imperial Majesty?” The question is detached, an emotionless evaluation, but Sidney flushes harder and hopes that his redness is concealed in the night.

“I cannot say that I-- that I interacted with it in any meaningful way,” Sidney stumbles out, and Dux Hall is instantly contrite.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I mean no judgement or assumption of your proclivities,” he hurries. “Merely from an aesthetic perspective, I ask, not from a belief that you receive--”

“ _Yes_ , Dux Hall, that is enough,” Sidney says, because he is sure to combust from embarrassment should the man continue any further down the path he began. “Is there any further information you require?”

“No, Your Imperial Majesty, I believe that is enough for now. I will have the new slave delivered to your rooms tonight, if that is your wish,” he says, and Sidney nods.

“Yes, Dux Hall, I would appreciate such,” he says. “And we shall see how this slave will suffice.”

Sidney isn’t able to extricate himself from the celebrations for another two hours, and he is nearly too exhausted by the return to his rooms to register the extra occupant within them. For a single, heart-stopping second, he thinks that his Humility has snuck into his chambers again, but on second glance, the man lounging in the chair next to the bed has too thin of a face with eyes too light to be Evgeni.

“Um, good evening?” Sidney says unsteadily, and the man-- pleasure slave, Sidney realizes-- approaches, smirking down at Sidney and rumbling, “Hello, Your Imperial Majesty.” Sidney thinks frantically back to his conversation with Dux Hall, and indeed, he requested a man terrifyingly similar to Evgeni-- _”Even a bit taller, hair and eyes darker, thin and strong_ .” The temptation to dismiss the slave is nearly overwhelming, Sidney's initial reaction a strong _no!_ , but he stops and thinks. What harm could it do? If Sidney must close his eyes and think of Evgeni, why not find someone similar enough that he needs not close his eyes? It remains a pleasure slave that he has intercourse with, so Sidney receives his satisfaction without ignoring all proper behavior.

Mind made up, Sidney says, “Strip,” before slipping out of his own toga. The slave is eager to comply, shedding his simple tunic quickly enough that he is able to help Sidney finish disrobing. “Your Imperial Majesty, surely the gods have carved you from the most exquisite marble,” the slave says, and Sidney resists sighing, the simpering praise doing little to excite him.

“Attending to my needs does not require speaking, slave,” Sidney says, because a man can only suffer so many indignities before he finds a permanent state of limpness. “I have not the time or the inclination for your ass; I am sure that you can discover another method of release.” Still it is strange to say so clearly his desires, but the slave is unruffled, leading Sidney to the bed and laying him out. He’s attentive, this one, running his fingers over Sidney's skin, and the feeling is no different than his attendants dressing him in the morning-- at least until he permits his mind to conjure up the vision he seeks, of Evgeni tending to him so reverently.

Even as Sidney begins to sink into the fantasy, tiny details pull him out. The slave’s hair is too long and his voice is smooth and neither ragged nor chipping; there’s none of Evgeni’s strange grace in his movements, but rather the trained suppleness of pleasure slaves. Sidney cannot focus on the commonalities enough to trick his mind, to tell him that for a few seconds he can have which is withheld from him.

Sidney remains stubbornly passionless after fifteen minutes of vigorous work by the slave, and closing his eyes now would be a farce too great to overcome. “Enough, that’s enough,” Sidney says wearily, and the slave sits upright, wiping indelicately at his mouth as Sidney's soft cock lies wetly against his thigh.

“Your Imperial Majesty, please, permit me to--” the slave cajoles, but Sidney's mind is not to be changed.

“No, slave. Continuing will bring no success. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the slave mutters, and Sidney turns to his side to stare at the wall instead of watching the slave clothe himself and depart. He wonders how the scales of justice balance, that he is unable to find any pleasure without touching that which is untouchable.

*     *     *

The gods prove their justice-- or lack thereof-- the next day, during Sidney's time of contemplation after dinner. He expects to relax, tell Evgeni of his worries of the day, and not much else, especially as petitioners know better than to disturb Sidney after dinner. As such, the knock at the door that comes after he sets aside his dinner is an unwelcome surprise.

Sidney's heart sinks as the pleasure slave from the night before sidles in, casting his gaze about the room until it alights on Sidney, eyes brightening. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, again in that husky approximation of seduction, and shimmies over to Sidney without a whit of attention paid to the Humility. The same cannot be said for Sidney; he is frozen in his place as the pleasure slave approaches, but his vision is filled with the sight of Evgeni growing steadily redder and developing a thunderous expression.

The slave boldly slides onto the couch, tucking up against Sidney and draping a hand over Sidney's chest to rub it up and down beneath his toga. He leans close to Sidney's ear and whispers, “Your Imperial Majesty, I could not help but think about last night, the unmistakable desire mixed with your sweet chastity, which overcame your deepest urges. I wish to relieve you of your stress, Your Imperial Majesty, and give you the pleasure that you deserve. Permit me the liberty to tend to your weary body, to soothe from it the aches and pains from carrying the Empire so that you can achieve the highest bliss that tempts you in the dark of the night.”

The words are a distant murmur in Sidney's ear as he watches Evgeni’s expression go from confusion to realization and shock to some strange cold emotion. Sidney swallows, feeling trapped as the slave bends his head to breathe deeply at the nape of Sidney's neck. “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, I only ask because I know you long for it,” he says, and Sidney snaps.

“Out! Leave, and do not return,” Sidney says, and the slave rears back in surprise before attempting to slip his arm over Sidney's waist again. Sidney throws it off roughly, sliding off the couch to stand and point at the door. He stubbornly stares down the slave, whose expression twists before it adapts something meek and contrite.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I meant no offense, just the offering of my services,” he tries, rounding his eyes and affecting an injured pout.

“Out,” Sidney commands firmly, and the pleasure slave slinks from the room. Sidney turns to Evgeni, but the apology forming on his lips falls unvoiced to the floor in the face of Evgeni’s chill expression.

“Why send him away? Obviously he’s ready to give you what you’re want,” the Humility says. His expression is somehow familiar, and it takes a moment before Sidney is transported back to his coronation and the same stare that Evgeni used on him then.

“It is my right to request the use of any of the pleasure slaves of the palace,” Sidney bleats, panicked and ready to fight to defend his use of the pleasure slaves, and Evgeni rolls his eyes.

“I’m say any different? So why you’re send him away? Think I’m not know he’s pleasure slave, what he’s here for?” Sidney feels himself flush, down his neck and onto his chest, and Evgeni gives a tight laugh. “He’s not first pleasure slave to come to you, of course. But he’s say you have _sweet chastity_ , what chastity you’re have? I’m think you’re very impure anymore, if you’re have many pleasure slaves, so what’s he mean?”

“Nothing,” Sidney snaps, but the mean twist to Evgeni’s face is too much, and Sidney caves under the pressure. “I have a slight-- there have been several-- my manhood has not been achieving its purpose,” Sidney says in a desperate rush, and Evgeni laughs, a cruel echo about the room.

“Mighty emperor can’t even get dick to work right, no wonder why he’s worst at running Empire,” Evgeni says, and Sidney drowns under a rush of blind rage.

“Do not blame me when it’s your-- _bewitching_ of me that is the root!” Sidney shouts, striding to the far end of the room from Evgeni, petulantly kicking at the hem of his toga. “Had you not placed your unholy spell upon me, my mind would be clear of you and I would be able to perform. But no! I am haunted by your face, your voice, and cannot find any desire in the absence of them! So I must close my eyes and think of that which I cannot have, or I must suffer the indignity of-- _chastity_ .” The last word is a curse spit from Sidney's lips, and he snarls at the thought of a slave calling him _chaste_.

Sidney turns in time to see Evgeni furiously open his mouth to respond, and then pause, mouth snapping shut as a contemplative look washes over his face. “My… unholy spell?” the Humility says, and Sidney scowls. “So… You’re have to think of me or else can’t have sex, can’t be hard?”

“It is of no matter,” Sidney says, mortified, and flees to the door to the hall, hand on the knob and ready to open it and call in the guards to have Evgeni removed.

“No matter?” Evgeni says, and Sidney pauses. His tone is low and nearly dangerous, but also laced with something Sidney cannot understand, so he turns. The Humility’s expression also edges on the unknown, but Sidney has no time to question it before Evgeni continues, “You’re only find pleasure if you’re think of me, and it’s no matter?” He slouches in his chair, legs spreading crudely, and Sidney's eyes are drawn down dangerously low before he snaps them back up to Evgeni’s face. There’s a smirk there, dark and pleased, and Sidney pants for breath. “I’m think it matter most. Close eyes, think of me instead of pay attention to slave? Wonder what I’m do, what I’m say?”

“Oh gods,” Sidney gasps to himself, retreating to one of the far couches and collapsing, elbows to his knees and face to his hands.

“You’re can’t even hide it,” Evgeni says wonderingly. “The pleasure slave, you’re ask for him? You’re try and have one that looks like me? But it’s still not enough for you, if you’re so _chaste_ with him.”

“I’m not _chaste_ ,” Sidney says into his hands. He must deny it, it is not true--

“So chaste, like proper bride, save your desire for husband,” Evgeni says gleefully.

“I refuse to discuss this matter with you,” Sidney says, standing up  on shaky knees and pointedly staring at the wall several feet above the Humility’s head. “And I am not a bride,” he adds, unable to resist.

“If you’re say so,” Evgeni says, suddenly terrifyingly complacent, and Sidney's instinctual fear proves to be correct as Evgeni continues, “But I’m think you’re not know what you’re want, just like bride. You’re need someone show you what you need, and pleasure slave too soft. You’re really want something harder, I’m think.”

“Guards!” yelps Sidney, and in they come, and out they go with his Humility in tow, because it is long past the time that Sidney must greet his bed.

*     *     *

Through completely unrelated circumstances-- these are the lies he tells himself, Sidney thinks despondently-- he is unable to acknowledge his Humility for the next week, or even so much as look at him. Sidney's usual time of contemplation is abandoned in favor of lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling, trapped in an endless argument with himself of whether he should summon a pleasure slave or not.

His internal strife is forgotten in the face of a messenger from Dux Neal. Sidney has barely read the scrap of papyrus covered in an ungainly sprawl when he’s shouting for a slave to run to Clemens Knight. Sidney follows in his litter, and the messenger is just leaving the temple as Sidney is placed upon the ground outside it. Clemens Knight waits in her rooms, face smooth in her quiet way of worrying, and Sidney does not waste time with pleasantries.

“I have received a troubling missive from Dux Neal,” Sidney says. “Here; you must read it yourself. I fear my own misinterpretation, so I will not color your perception.”

She bends over the papyrus, smoothing it carefully over her lap where Sidney has crumpled it. When she looks up, she is pale and her lips tremble. “I believe, through the blessing of the gods, we have narrowly avoided disaster,” she says.

_Your Imperial Majesty--_

_I write to beg forgiveness for my transgression. I have taken advice from sources outside of yourself, the council, and the Valor, and I have paid dearly for it. The citizens rose up against the Empire yesterday due to my withdrawal of funds from the repair of the aqueducts, which I was assured was the correct move to develop meekness and agreement in the citizens and lead to a quicker resolution. Fifteen soldiers died defending myself and the diligens, fifteen lives uselessly spent. I wished to prevent such a loss above all else, but I failed._

_Consider myself your greatest ally from this day forward. Your Imperial Majesty, I beg of you, guide me so that I do not again go astray. I am your devoted servant._

_Dux James Neal_

“From where was Dux Neal receiving counsel?” Sidney says, stopping next to a statue of the goddess and examining it closely, for to focus on the near-disaster would result in naught but formless panic. The Humility, chained to the podium of the statue and standing to its other side, barely twitches as Sidney steps near. “The traitor has been found and executed. Was Dux Hossa not working alone? Is there another traitor still in our midst?”

“I fear this may be so, Your Imperial Majesty,” Hilary says, reclining back and placing a hand over her eyes. “I had thought-- I had no suspicion of Dux Hossa acting with assistance. He is a fine marksman, with access to knowledge of your plans and patterns. There was little reason to suspect additional traitors.”

Sidney runs his hand down the smooth marble of the goddesses’ toga, wishing that the sharp chill of contact was accompanied with a shock of understanding. “So once again, we must suspect all,” Sidney says grimly.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I disagree. You must _continue_ to suspect all, not begin anew,” Clemens Knight scolds. “You cannot afford the luxury of unconditional trust.”

“And yet you say you did not believe Dux Hossa to be in collusion with any of the court!” Sidney cries. “Clemens Knight, do you understand my frustration? At every turn, I am scolded for my past actions, as if I had knowledge greater than the gods of what the future holds.”

Hilary sighs, crossing her arms and wriggling into the couch to find comfort. “I apologize, Your Imperial Majesty, if I have given this impression. I have expressed myself poorly in my worries; I fear that you are too trusting of the court, too unquestioning always, and that you will continue to be surprised by the subterfuge that is the grease which eases the way of politics. Dux Neal’s capitulation is rare, should it be genuine, and truly a favorable gift from the gods rather than the common behavior of the Hundred Houses.”

“So I must question even a declaration of loyalty?” Sidney says. “I will never achieve the goals of my office should I be consumed with doubt each day. I will recede, a raving madman of an emperor. I cannot function in this manner, Hilary.”

“It is not a matter of can or cannot, Your Imperial Majesty. It is a matter of will or die. Your strongest supports, those of us who I believe have proven our loyalty, will do our best to aid you in understanding your court. But we are not always with you, Your Imperial Majesty, nor can we be your constant companions. You must accept this doubt, this wariness, into your life and mind in whatever way that you can, or else you forfeit us all to traitors.”

“You demand that I question all, yet you assure me of my strongest supporters,” Sidney says. He wilts with exhaustion; it weighs on his chest like a stone, pressing, pressing until he has not the hope to move again. “Do you see how I am led in circles? There must be a better answer than what you present, Clemens Knight. The Empire has grown from a seedling to the mightiest tree in the forest through some methods; I find it difficult to believe that it was through random chance and all-consuming suspicion.”

“Should you find that better answer, you will be remembered forever as our greatest emperor,” Hilary says grimly. “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, at the very least think on what I’ve said. In this moment, however, we must return to the matter at hand-- Dux Neal and his mysterious advisor.”

“I assume that you will gently discuss the topic amongst your informants,” Sidney says with a shrug, and she nods. “Then what else is there to do?”

“Provide Dux Neal with what he must know in order to meet success and grow his faith in you.” The words are simple in Clemens Knight’s mouth, but take great shape in Sidney's mind.

“I must speak with Clemens Subban,” Sidney says slowly, as he sees the edges of the problem, the points where he can prod to cause great effect. The thought thrills him; finally he has realized a solution on his own without being led like a horse to water. “If any can advise on the comforts that will bring the citizens back to the Empire, it is he.”

“A fine plan, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says. “I suggest you move with alacrity; there is no time to spare in providing your support to Dux Neal.”

“Then I take my leave,” Sidney says, turning to the door, and barely catches Clemens Knight’s parting shot: “Remember, Your Imperial Majesty, think on my suggestion! I will not tolerate your assassination after I have so carefully trained you!”

Clemens Subban is in the midst of his duties when Sidney arrives at his temple, blessing a baby to the home and hearth. Sidney and his guard lingers at the rear of the nave, smiling to himself as the family receives Clemens Subban’s benediction. He waits until they depart from the temple doors to emerge and call, “Clemens Subban!”

The priest turns, smiling broadly as he catches sight of Sidney. “Your Imperial Majesty, what a pleasant surprise!” he says, moving towards Sidney to grasp his hand and bow over it before gently herding Sidney towards his private rooms. “I hope you come bearing good tidings; there is enough strife in the world these days, though I feel the gentle song of Paxius quite strongly today.”

“I bring news, both foul and hopeful in nature, Clemens,” Sidney says. “I fear there is no unequivocal joy in my life except for your shining presence.”

Clemens Subban throws back his head and laughs, and as they enter his chambers, he throws a too-friendly arm over Sidney's shoulders, saying “Your Imperial Majesty, you flatter me so!” Sidney is nearly blinded with a sudden longing for his family, their embraces and kind touches, and he blinks rapidly as Clemens Subban drops his arm, attempting to regain his equilibrium.

“Please, Clemens, before we begin, I ask that you read this missive from the eastern front,” Sidney says, hoping that his worry covers the grief still webbed in his throat. Clemens Subban takes the papyrus solemnly, scanning it, eyebrows rising steadily through the course of the letter.

Clemens Subban reclines before he answers, mouth pursed as he thinks, gesturing for Sidney to take his ease as well. When Sidney is settled, he says slowly, “I see the heart of your meaning; both foul and fair indeed, Your Imperial Majesty. But this is a matter of war, not peace, and so I must ask; how may I be of assistance?”

“I believe the core issue is that we find violence where we should have peace amongst the citizenry. So I ask of you, how do we remind the citizens that the Empire is their home? How do we provide to them the comforts and peace of the hearth? For above all, this is the need I see.” Sidney knows, deep in his soul, that _this_ is how he would like to be remembered: the emperor that brought his citizens home.

“Indeed, Your Imperial Majesty, I can see the truth in your request. Dux Neal mentions repairing aqueducts; with winter firmly arrived and no functioning aqueducts, the citizens’ foremost thought is with their stomachs, I have no doubt. If the battle lines progressed through their fields, they already faced a shortage; then to add to that a lack of water and the burden of the regiments-- I believe they hunger already, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I cannot fault them for their worries if you indeed speak their hearts,” Sidney says thoughtfully. “You truly believe this is the core of their unease?”

“There is always the potential that the regiments have misbehaved, when the watchful eye of the Valor was turned elsewhere,” Clemens Subban says, placing his hand upon his chin. “But I have no doubt that Valor Sedin has remedied all indiscretions and appropriately punished the inciters.”

“Perhaps it is a matter to verify directly with him,” Sidney says. “I thank you for your counsel, Clemens Subban. I must request one final item to you; Dux Neal has an uneasy heart over the results of his actions. I believe a blessing of peace and of home will not go amiss in his time of grief, for it is clear to me that war has brought him too much sadness for one man to bear.”

Clemens Subban holds his hand to his heart and inclines his head. “It would be my greatest honor to offer him the gentle rest of home, Your Imperial Majesty. He hoped to find closure in war, I think, and instead he is further torn asunder. I will offer what comfort I can, so that his heart is led back to the peace he so desires.”

Sidney smiles at the priest, content in the ally he has chosen for this battle. “Thank you, Clemens Subban. Excuse my abruptness, but I must gather the Hundred Houses and impress upon them the importance of their contributions towards the eastern front, and the increase of food supply that must occur.”

“The gods smile on your efforts, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Subban says. “May the divine will settle in the hearts of the Hundred Houses and lead to a quick accord.”

Sidney departs, hardly noticing as his guards and the Humility fall in behind him. The palace is in an uproar; Clemens Knight, with her frightening accuracy in predicting Sidney's wishes, has already sent out the call to the Hundred Houses to assemble. and lords are shouting at Sidney in the halls, demanding to know the reason. The guards form around Sidney and his Humility, delivering them to the Hall of Hundreds, through only a handful of lords have taken their seat in the amphitheater seats.

Despite the chaos in the halls, the Houses are all present within fifteen minutes of Sidney's arrival. Sidney spends the moments quietly considering his tactic; his instinct is to appeal to their good sense, ask for their faith in him and his plan. Maybe several months ago, he would not have even considered a different approach. Now, though, he is tired of waiting on lords too concerned with their own agendas, uninterested in hearing their arguments now that he knows what they will be. He must impress upon them his urgency, and more than that, his unwillingness to tarry or argue over their duty.

Cautio Dupuis calls the lords to order and steps aside, ceding the floor to Sidney. “I come before you today not as a supplicant but as your emperor,” Sidney starts as shocked faces erupt around the room at Sidney's bluntness. He takes strength from the lords’ surprise and continues, “The eastern front has presented an opportunity to the Empire, and Dux Neal is prepared to win back the citizens and place the regiments in the path of victory. His action can only bring us so much good will; the people have given their all to support the advancement of our warriors, to the point that their stomachs are empty and their tempers frayed.

“What I require of you, my lords, is for you to make good on your commitments to the Empire. Your warehouses, your granaries, your amphoras that overflow-- I call on them now. As the Empire demands the sacrifices of the regiments to grow and spread its glory, so it demands a sacrifice of you. My cautiones will collect your pledges of provisions and organize the logistics, until the military warehouses again are full-- and any who disobey will be paraded as the traitors that they are, their estates seized and their assets provided in their entirety to the regiments.” Sidney breaths heavily at the conclusion, unsure of where his sudden eloquence erupted from but simmering with victory as he stares up at the ranks of lords above him.

An outraged silence rings through the amphitheater and then a great uproar. Sidney sits as the lords shout, some down at him and some at each other, but in the end, Sidney knows they will cede. To abandon the regiments is to abandon the citizens and truly the whole of the Empire; no dux can afford the reputation of filling his coffers in lieu of supporting the Empire when the gossip is so poor and the harvest was so rich.

There is no point in remaining, so Sidney gestures to the cautiones to summon them to a private chamber. The lords scatter about the room in various shades of unease as Sidney says, “I assure you, lords, my expectations that the military warehouses are entirely refilled are not an exaggeration. That is not counting the special resupply caravan that will be sent to the citizens on the eastern front. Within five days, I expect the pledges from your cohort for the warehouses, as well as the actual stock to be sent to the front readied to depart. There is no time to waste; this is the price the lords pay for allowing their attention to their duties to lapse. Do not think that I do not understand why the warehouses are so empty.”

“You are not making any allies today, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Perron says grimly. Dux Staal is in his cohort, and Sidney recalls seeing him shouting so vigorously at Dux Kessel in the amphitheater that Sidney could nearly see the steam rising from his head. Dux Staal also recently boasted of the quality and quantity of the meals on his table, and Sidney thinks that perhaps a diligens and arbiter from the capital should be visiting his district soon to ensure the satisfaction of his citizens and the justice of the rule.

“Today’s actions were not to create allies, Cautio Perron, but to force the lords to show their true hands. Should they wish to be traitors, they must openly declare themselves as such; they have acted traitorously, some more than others, in that they believe they can run wild without my notice. This is their warning. It is your duty, cautiones, to impress upon them the importance of their cooperation in order to prove their devotion to the Empire. Citizens do not take kindly to lords who permit starvation while they fatten themselves on state feasts.”

Silence falls again, this time in resignation, and Sidney nods briskly. “Very well, my lords, I believe the situation is clear to you. Go forth and ensure that your cohorts understand it as well. I look forward to your favorable reports in five days.”

Thanks to the fickle desires of the gods, it’s only after that Sidney remembers that his dinner that night is to be with Cautio Perron’s cohort. Indeed, it’s a cold and fractious event, Dux Staal making the opening sally with pointed comments about how the Empire is beggaring its greatest assets. Dux Giroux and Dux Bieksa agree, eventually goading Dux Benn and Dux Stempniak into a heated argument that nearly comes to blows. Sidney's guards forcibly settle the lords, but Sidney escapes as soon as is polite, collapsing with relief into a couch in his receiving room.

“I’m never think you find your balls and tell lords what to do,” Evgeni comments unexpectedly, and Sidney scowls as the meaning of his words sinks past his exhaustion. “Wondered if that’s why you have so much trouble in bed, if you’re not even know where they are.”

“That’s enough from you,” Sidney says testily, and his Humility snorts but otherwise stays quiet. The damage is done, though; he’s already thinking of all the ways he would gleefully prove to Evgeni the presence of his balls and the uses they have. Evgeni sits meek and silent in his corner, as he has since the pleasure slave interrupted them, but his docility does little to clear the air between them. Sidney makes a disgusted noise and stands, knocking at the door to summon the guards to remove Evgeni.

Lying in his bed, Sidney considers his frustration and the benefit of summoning a pleasure slave. Unfortunately, even the barest thought is too shameful after the last slave’s foolish actions, twisting Sidney with guilt. The use of his own hand must suffice, and at first it feels like handling a dead fish, so chill and limp. Sidney stubbornly imagines the gleaming body of the pleasure slaves, the practiced skill of Evan, but-- it’s as enticing as thinking of trees or council meetings or, well. Dead fish.

Sidney loosens his grip and permits his hand to slip, despondent at the loss of his virility. Yet-- his fingers brush at his sack, and his stomach leaps as his thoughts of Evgeni come flashing back. Sidney cannot-- it is wrong, he knows this, but he also remembers Sanctus Fleury’s words. As long as he refrains from the actual sin, what harm can there be?

As he grips his balls, Sidney thinks of how he would make Evgeni lick and suck at them, show his respect for Sidney's masculinity. His cock rises quickly, blood burning in his veins, and completion arrives embarrassingly quickly as Sidney pumps his hips and thinks of the sweet slap of his flesh against Evgeni’s, the sharp bump of his balls against Evgeni’s ass on each stroke.

As quickly as Sidney's orgasm floods through him, disgust follows. Surely, he deepens his damnation. Surely, this is the last time that Sidney will think of Evgeni as anything other than his property.

*     *     *

Sidney is stewing in his lingering poor mood from the night before when Clemens Knight sidles into the audience chamber the next day, and Sidney breathes a prayer for good news. “Sanctus Zetterberg and the tributes of Iras met today,” she says brusquely. “They did not notice that the slave who served their lunch was not a palace slave but rather one of my temple slaves.”

“You suspect his tributes so strongly?” Sidney asks, and Hilary shrugs. “They are fine suspects,” she replies. “Dux Hossa was among them, and should any group drive a man to rash attempts at assassination, it would be that one. According to my slave, they spent the meal puffing their chests and boasting of their manliness and prowess at various things. Dux Neal was not mentioned, but I shall continue to have their meetings observed, in case one lord is careless enough to misspeak as he believes himself to be surrounded by allies.”

“We did not conquer the Empire in a day,” Sidney says, idly pulling at a loose thread in his toga. “While nothing would bring me more joy than an immediate answer, I accept that we must have patience.”

“An answer will come sooner with multiple attacks on this front, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says. “There are only so many resources at my disposal. Do not fear to ask your other lords and priests to begin questioning.”

“Again you harp on the balance of suspicion and trust, Clemens Knight,” Sidney says sharply. “I am in no mood for this fight. Make your dispositions as necessary and understand that you are my only information gatherer.”

“So be it, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says. Her expression is pinched, and Sidney pettily hopes that she regrets her antagonization of him on the matter. In a second he rues the thought, knowing it for his own frustration rather than her fault.

Day after day, her report remains the same; Iras’ tributes meet daily, sometimes with Sanctus Zetterberg directly, sometimes alone, sometimes at the racetrack or the fighters’ arena. They express their displeasure of Sidney's demands on their resources, but according to Clemens Knight, none speak traitorously, and Sidney receives their pledges on the fifth day along with the rest of the Hundred Houses.

Sidney calls the full council, not just the cautiones, as well as Sanctus Zetterberg on behalf of the war council to receive the pledges and send off the caravan to Dux Neal. Cautio Dupuis presents Sidney with a long papyrus list, summing up the contributions of the lords, and it is enough to fill the warehouses and more.

“Thank you, my lords, for reminding your peers of their duty to ensure the success of the Empire. It is easy to forget the plight of others in the face of our own worries, and I am pleased to see that the Hundred Houses quickly remember their honor.”

Sanctus Zetterberg stands, frowning slightly as he says, “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, I sympathize with the citizens in the east, but I fail to see how your actions will better the causes of the Empire. We require more warriors, not amphoras of wine for those who risk nothing for the glory of the Empire.”

“What is the Empire without its citizens?” Sidney asks rhetorically. “Sanctus Zetterberg, we cannot sustain war and bring victory to the feet of Iras without the support of the citizenry. More soldiers will do us no good if they starve and desert the regiment. The lords’ pledges will feed both the citizens and the army and will provide the impetus to continue pressing eastward.”

“Equally so, the Empire is nothing without its regiments! How do you believe the soldiers feel when they see citizens rise up and act with impudence against the Empire, and are not only _not_ punished, but rather rewarded? These citizens have killed sworn soldiers of the Empire and none are executed as the traitors that they are? That is insult enough to our might, Your Imperial Majesty. Then to provide them with food they have not worked for-- no soldier will stand for it.”

“Sanctus Zetterberg speaks truth,” Cautio Orpik joins in, and Sidney remembers that he is one of Iras’ tributes. “What punishments have come to the citizens? How has order been restored among them, when clearly they are so out of balance that they forget the most basic tenants of civilized life?” Cautio Orpik’s mention of punishment brings back to mind the actions of Dux Neal that led to the current situation. Was he the advisor to Dux Neal, and finds Sidney's actions to prevent further unrest in the east frustrating? Or does Cautio Orpik merely share Sanctus Zetterberg’s opinion from their divine bond?

“Punishment, when citizens act in fear, will only foster further resentment,” Clemens Subban says, eyes sharp as he rises to square off against Sanctus Zetterberg. “We need not foster war within the citizenry, but peace, Sanctus Zetterberg. This is action outside of your realm; step aside and let His Imperial Majesty act as he sees fit for the happiness and health of his citizens.”

Sanctus Zetterberg snarls in return, standing to loom over Clemens Subban threateningly, fist clenched about his ceremonial dagger, though he leaves it sheathed. “The happiness and health of his citizens come at the cost of the happiness of the regiments, so I insist, Clemens Subban, it _is_ an action well within my realm! Do not dismiss my priorities in favor of yours. Without the regiments, our Empire would be no Empire at all, but a district half a day’s ride in its greatest length. There would be no citizens for you to cluck over.”

“ _Cluck_ over?” Clemens Subban says, outraged, and Cautio Dupuis, Cautio Maatta, and Cautio Thornton all stand, scowling and beginning to shout themselves.

“Council!” Sidney roars, and they all turn to look at him. “Enough. Sanctus Zetterberg and Cautio Orpik, your concerns have been noted. We will continue forth with the disposition of food as planned. Clemens Subban is correct in saying that punishment of the citizens is not the path to victory; remember also that I have gathered additional rations for the armies, so if the regiments feel the burn of hunger, we must only look to their captains or to Valor Sedin for mismanagement.”

“Your Imperial Majesty--” Cautio Orpik tries, and Sidney holds up a hand to silence him. He subsides, though not in good grace, and Sidney continues. His firm handling of the Hundred Houses had provided such good results, so Sidney chances to take a similar tone with the council.

“This is not a negotiation, council, this is an edict for the good of the Empire. Cautio Dupuis, please see to it that the diligentes have the caravan for the east sent off by tomorrow.” Cautio Dupuis inclines his head in acknowledgement, so Sidney continues, “That is all for this day, council. Go forth and continue the work of the Empire.”

The council members trickle out in ones and twos, soft conversations and thunderous expressions in equal measure, until just Sidney and Clemens Knight are left in the council room. “I cannot help but be intrigued by the conversation today,” Clemens Knight says from her comfortable sprawl on a couch. “Did anything strike you as curious, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“I cannot help but wonder at Cautio Orpik’s dissent,” Sidney says, and Clemens Knight gives a small, satisfied “hah!” “His insistence on punishment of the citizens rings uncomfortably true to the advice given to Dux Neal.”

“I do not disagree,” Hilary says. “I believe it is time to observe Cautio Orpik more closely. Also, consider attending to his cohort not in private dinners but in more public venues. Assassinations are much more difficult with witnesses.”

“Your words are, as always, a comfort to me,” Sidney says drily. “I will take your advice into account. I assume you will attend to ensuring that Cautio Orpik receives the proper amount of attention from our allies?”

“It is too unsubtle to have a temple slave follow him all day, I suppose,” Clemens Knight says. “But I have other methods, never fear, Your Imperial Majesty. I will have for you reports of Cautio Orpik’s actions along with that of Iras’ tributes beginning tomorrow.”

“I look forward to hearing of the thrilling escapades of Cautio Orpik,” Sidney says. “Until tomorrow, Clemens Knight.”

“Lunat’s blessings,” she responds absently, and Sidney departs.

*     *     *

Just two days later, Sidney is bundled up in the Imperial box of the Grand Circus, trading bets with Cautio Orpik and Cautio Foglino’s cohorts. There is a chill wind blowing from the north and the fire in the box gutters endlessly from it, but the wine and food is warm and the lords are bright in their merriment.

A mighty groan echoes about the box as Dux Farnham’s chariot, the favored in this race, falls to the rear of Dux Eberle’s, who takes the victory. There’s an upswell of talk-- “Farnham, you have let us all down!” and “What, haven’t you learned your lesson about betting against Eberle?”-- but Sidney chose not to place a wager on this race so he avoids the argument and heads towards the table of food. His Humility is chained just to the side, within reach of the plain breads and fruits but not much else.

Sidney notices as he picks up a platter to fill that there is a quiet cascade of metallic clinks, and he glances up to see Evgeni shiver, a great shudder from head to toe. “Are you alright?” Sidney asks in an undertone, pretending to reach to the back of the table in order to bring himself closer to Evgeni. “Shall I have you moved closer to the fire? Do you need a heavier cloak?”

“Now you want talk to me?” Evgeni hisses, but his expression morphs from incensed to panicked in a second. He lunges towards Sidney, too suddenly for Sidney to react, and throws an arm around Sidney's shoulders. Evgeni cries out just as there is a great commotion from behind Sidney, but Sidney can only see Evgeni collapse to the ground, his arm dragging over Sidney's shoulder. Sidney catches him, saying desperately, “Evgeni? Evgeni, what’s wrong?” The Humility’s arm finally drops to his side, and Sidney nearly retches as he sees that it’s cut to the bone, a long, bloody slice up the forearm and through the elbow.

The chaos behind Sidney is a distant second thought to Evgeni’s injury, but a shouted, “Your Imperial Majesty!” precedes hands roughly grabbing Sidney and pulling him away from his Humility. “No!” Sidney shouts, fighting against his restrictions, desperate to touch Evgeni, to assure himself that the slave’s heart still beats, for his face has gone horrifically grey and the floor-- and Sidney's cloak-- are painted with his blood.

“Your Imperial Majesty, it is not safe,” a voice says urgently in Sidney's ear, and the guards that have dragged Sidney off the floor are surrounding him and hurrying him out of the Imperial box. “The traitor is caught, but we do not know if he works alone.”

“My Humility,” Sidney says, grasping at the arms nearest him. The stone of the corridor spins past Sidney's eyes, but all he can see the bloom of red and the dreadful stillness of Evgeni’s face. “Guards, my Humility, he--”

“He will be cared for, Your Imperial Majesty,” the guard says. “But we must get you to safety. Others will attend to him.”

“The best healers,” Sidney demands, panic shaking his voice and his limbs. Evgeni _cannot_ be permitted to die. “It is not negotiable. He will be given the best healers, the best comforts the palace has. And his freedom, for sacrificing himself.”

“We will contact a messenger for you as soon as possible, Your Imperial Majesty,” the guard soothes. “There were many witnesses to his actions, and he will be shown the Empire’s gratitude in full, both from yourself and from the Hundred Houses.”

“He cannot be permitted to die,” Sidney says, as if speaking the words would make it a command to the gods.

“Neither can you, Your Imperial Majesty. Once you are safe, you can concern yourself with the Humility.”

Sidney fists his hand into the neck of the guard’s tunic, leaning in and hissing, “The very second that I am secure, guard, is when you will concern yourself with my Humility.” He trembles with the force of the words, the _fury_ of them, and the guard looks startled even as his eyes jump about warily.

“ _Yes_ , Your Imperial Majesty, I understand. Now if I may be permitted to ensure your safe return to the palace?” Another contingent of guards has joined the group that surrounds Sidney, and between that fact and the guard’s sudden attitude, Sidney lets the guard pull away from him.

They raise shields above and around to create a turtle’s shell of iron around Sidney, forming a phalanx in lieu of placing him in a litter. The guards push Sidney along swiftly, so much so that he must grab his tunic and raise the hem to avoid tripping on it. The movement brings the red-stained sweep of his toga back into Sidney's view, and he is again swamped by sickness. A guard nearly bowls Sidney over as he bends over to vomit, and he is hauled upright and pushed along the second his heaving stops.

Unsurprisingly, Sidney's guards deposit him in his receiving room, but with more stringent protection than usual. Two guards stand in the bedroom, two in the bathing room, four in the receiving room, and eight in the hall outside the door.

Sidney cleans himself, shedding his fouled toga and washing his face as one of the guards implores Sidney, “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, wait here and rest,” before he departs. The nerve he must have to order Sidney to stand by and _rest_ while Evgeni is suffering, while his court is thrown into chaos--

His righteous fury is derailed by the arrival of Clemens Knight and a healer, but before he can launch into a tirade, the healer accosts him and pushes him down into a couch. “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, permit me to examine you and ensure that in our panic we did not miss any injury of yours,” the healer asks, already tugging at Sidney's toga to see his neck and upper back.

“I assure you that I am not the one in need of a healer,” Sidney snaps. “What is being done for my Humility? Why do you waste my time while he bleeds?”

“Peace, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight soothes, sitting next to Sidney on the sofa. “Your Humility is being attended to already-- it was clear to all that his health was of paramount importance to your own.” Sidney opens his mouth to harangue her, and she raises a hand. “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, peace. Permit the healer to finish before allowing your passions to rise again.”

Sidney settles petulantly as the healer wipes Sidney's skin down with cool water, presumably inspecting for any injury hidden by Evgeni’s blood. Finally, the healer says, “Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty. You have escaped any injury by the assassin.”

“Had you asked me so at the beginning, we could have all spared you any effort in discovering this,” Sidney says peevishly. “You are dismissed.” He stands as the healer does and resumes his pacing. The second the door is closed behind the healer, he rounds in Clemens Knight, saying, “Well? What of my Humility? What of the traitor? Who was it? Where was my Humility taken?”

“One question at a time, Your Imperial Majesty,” Hilary says, holding her hands up in a gesture of peace. “Your Humility is being cared for. The healers were attending to him directly in the Imperial box; it was cleared after your departure, and he is well guarded. They will move him back to the palace when it is safe to do so, both for his health and from any further unrest.”

“I expect to be informed as soon as he is returned,” Sidney says.

“I do not believe anyone believes you desire anything different,” Hilary soothes. “Now, may we discuss the pressing issue of your second attempted assassin?”

“Please, continue if you must.”

“Dux Saad has been taken by the guards for his attempt on your life--”

“Dux Saad?” Sidney says, taken aback. “We have not-- there has not been any activity to suspect him, correct?”

“Yes, this is true,” Hilary says grimly. “He is a member of Iras’ tributes, but he is young and has no specific motivation against you that I am aware of. He survived the arena with a minimum of injuries-- spared at the hand of the Brown tribute--  and you did not cross blades with him there.”

“An unpleasant surprise,” Sidney says. “But at least a few of the lords witnessed his attempt, I assume? They can testify in the traitor’s court?” Sidney cares less about the attempt on his life than he does about the damage done to his Humility; he is not a man prone to violence, but today, he wants nothing more than to see Dux Saad’s blood drain from his body.

“Cautio Orpik, Dux Farnham, and Dux Zuccarello all directly witnessed the action, in addition to a guard. There is more than enough testimony against him. He is imprisoned for now, but he will be tortured to discover if he is in collusion with any other lords.” She pauses but continues softly, “I grow weary of worrying over your head, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I find myself with not a dissimilar feeling,” Sidney says. “I am sure none will begrudge me should I choose to take my dinner in private tonight.”

“Rather, I believe all would be relieved, Your Imperial Majesty,” she says. “Go and take your solitude, and know that many sacrifices will be burnt in thanksgiving today on behalf of your Humility.”

*     *     *

Sidney does not find his own relief until the next morning when a messenger arrives. “Your Imperial Majesty, the healers wish you inform you that if you desire to see your Humility, you may now do so.”

“Take me to him,” Sidney says, standing from his couch and dropping the book of poetry he was idly reading in lieu of holding audiences, which was on the list of banned activities courtesy of Clemens Knight and Cautio Dupuis. A guard begins to protest, “Your Imperial Majesty--” but a single vitriolic look from Sidney silences him.

“Bring as many guards with me as you feel is necessary, but I will not be prevented from seeing my Humility,” Sidney says frostily, and the guard salutes. Of course, such free rein was taken and liberally used by the guards, so Sidney found himself suffering at the center of a crowd of eight guards to walk five hundred feet down the halls of his own palace.

Evgeni’s room is windowless with no adjacent rooms, so Sidney's command to the guards of, “Remain in the hall,” is sullenly obeyed. Sidney takes from a guard a tiny iron key and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath before opening the door and stepping in.

A healer is sitting in attendance on a low stool next to the bed, but he rises and bows hastily as Sidney enters. “Your Imperial Majesty, when you are finished with your conversation, I wish to speak with you,” the healer says, and Sidney nods and waves him out of the room.

With the distraction removed, Sidney can focus on Evgeni. He is deathly pale as he lounges on his bed and clad in a simple woolen shift, arm wrapped from wrist to halfway up his upper arm and strapped securely to his side. A mountain of pillows loom behind Evgeni’s back, keeping him propped on his left side, and a table near the head of the bed is overflowing with food. Surprisingly, it is not standard slave fare but rather a wide arrangement of delicacies, everything from the most expensive of fish to tiny, honey-soaked pastries, most of the latter appearing to have already been reduced to crumbs.

Evgeni watches Sidney as Sidney examines his room, eyes slit barely open, but he makes no comment. Sidney abruptly misses his impertinence, and a great fear follows on the heels of the loss. What if Evgeni had died to save Sid? What if a conspirator of Dux Saad’s came to slaughter Evgeni in the night, to punish him for his audacity in saving Sid? What if Evgeni became the target, because Sidney's enemies divined some greater connection between them? Each thought brings Sidney's breath faster, dizzy with terrible possibility, and Sidney gropes his way to sinking down onto the healer’s abandoned stool.

Sidney gulps and forces his breath to steady, Evgeni’s eyes blinking long and slow as he watches Sidney thrash his way back to calm. Finally Sidney is able to look at Evgeni and say, “Thank you. If it were not for you, I would not be alive today.” Evgeni blinks, but does not have an answer otherwise, so Sidney continues, speaking to his own knees to avoid the sharp ache that comes at the sight of Evgeni’s arm. “I… I have come here today to pay the debt I owe you. Your sacrifice is one that no Humility in the history of our Empire has chosen to make. Your integrity is the mark of a freed man, not of a slave, and I have no doubt that the Hundred Houses agree.” Sidney takes a deep breath before saying, “Evgeni, I release you from the bond of slavery and your duties as my Humility. You are a freed man.”

Sidney stands and unlocks the chain from the wall with the key he took from the guard, carefully laying it behind Evgeni’s back. He can do naught about the collar by himself, but he has no desire to summon a guard to attend to that detail yet.

Evgeni does not stir, and Sidney retakes his seat, leg jittering as he waits for a reaction. Evgeni’s eyes have slid fully closed, though, and Sidney has nearly accepted that he will have to wait until another day for his response when Evgeni’s lips part and he breathes a simple, “Good.”

Sidney leans forward with bated breath, but no other comment seems forthcoming. Finally, Sidney sighs, reaching out to gently run his fingers through Evgeni’s hair where his bedrest has created chaos in it. Evgeni doesn’t stir, so Sidney repeats the gesture a few more times before standing and leaving the room.

“Guard, when he next awakes, remove his collar. Evgeni is now a freed man and has been released from his duty as the Humility for his services to the Empire in preventing my assassination.” The guards salute, poorly hiding their expressions of shock, and Sidney gestures to the healer to walk down the hall with him for an illusion of privacy. “Please, healer, tell me of his condition.”

“The wound was very deep and bled profusely,” the healer says, sighing and crossing his arms. “He is young and very healthy, and assuming that we can prevent the blood sickness from taking hold, will likely recover very well. The only problem is his elbow-- in wounds as deep as his, many times there will be permanent trouble with the joint, anything from lifelong stiffness and pain to complete loss of the use of the rest of his arm.”

Unbidden, Sidney's panic rises again, all of his previously thought-of fears and more, now Evgeni with a limp right arm, forever a helpless target against Sidney's enemies. “For my safety and his, he must be removed from court while he heals,” Sidney says. Another thought teases at his mind, and he says slowly, “Healer, I command that you escort Evgeni away from the capital to heal in safety. For your protection, I cannot know where you take him, but I have heard that there is a family on the outskirts that has recently lost their eldest son to the capital and would likely appreciate the company of someone who knows him like the Humility does.” Sidney pauses, unsure if his instructions were too vague, but the healer winks and nods and he feels his shoulders relax as he finishes, “Take whatever and whoever that you need with you in order to ensure he heals as swiftly and thoroughly as possible. Tell no others where you go; you will be escorted by guards and protected until Evgeni is able to take his freedom.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the healer bows. “I will be prepared by this afternoon.”

“Guard!” Sidney summons, and a man peels away from the group and approaches, halting and saluting Sidney. “Evgeni will be taken along with whatever supplies this healer chooses to bring with him to a destination of the healer’s choice. Send a messenger immediately to inform whomever houses them that he will be receiving an honored guest and relay to them the recent events of the court, including assuring them of my good health. Also, tell them that no expense or comfort is to be spared for his houseguest. Arrange for transport for this afternoon and a guard assignment for the duration of Evgeni’s recovery.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the guard intones. “Do you have any message for the Hu-- for Evgeni?”

“Tell him-- tell him that court is not safe for him, that he will be able to rest and recover at my family’s estate until he is fully healed and ready to go forth,” Sidney says. “I am sure that both of you understand the necessity in protecting those who prove their loyalty to the Empire.”

“Many of the lords have been sending tokens of their appreciation to the man,” the healer says. “They will be sorely disappointed if they cannot continue to show their favor to him.”

“Permit me to deal with the lords,” Sidney says. “All gifts must be vetted, to ensure that they are not the work of traitors. But I will ensure that they continue to be able to express their appreciation.”

“Just one more question, Your Imperial Majesty,” the healer says. “Do you desire regular messages?”

“Yes,” Sidney says immediately. “Daily, unless there is a significant change, in which I expect an immediate update. If you require anything else to ensure the comfort and health of Evgeni, inform me and it will be attended to.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the healer and guard chorus, and Sidney forces himself to walk away.

*     *     *

Though Evgeni was mostly unobtrusive throughout his accompaniment of Sidney, the loss of his presence is still unsettling. Sidney is accustomed to staying his step after exiting a room, permitting the guards to unchain Evgeni and bring him along, just as he is accustomed to seeking out Evgeni’s gaze when he requires a moment to ground himself. Knowing the finality of Evgeni’s departure as he watches the wagon depart that afternoon is gut-wrenching; despite Sidney's frustration at his own improper feelings and Evgeni’s occasional cruelty, Evgeni was Sidney's constant companion during the overwhelming chaos of becoming emperor, and truthfully, Sidney appreciated him for that.

Sidney is-- he is not _moping_ , he is in contemplation-- a handful of evenings after the attempt when a messenger arrives, so dusty and travel-worn that he must be from the eastern front. “Report from Dux Neal, Your Imperial Majesty,” the man says with a bow, and Sidney accepts the proffered envelope. He turns to leave, likely eager to see the bathhouses, but Sidney halts him with, “Wait! Tell me, what of the front? What have you seen?”

The messenger purses his lips before saying, “I will not lie, Your Imperial Majesty, there was much fear and panic throughout Dux Hossa’s betrayal and Dux Neal’s continuation of his poor treatment of the citizens and regiments. But two weeks ago, Dux Neal must have been touched by the hand of Paxius, for he came to all with peace his in heart. With the arrival of the food for the citizens and the completion of the aqueduct repairs, our spirits are raised and we can once again dedicate ourselves to the victory of the Empire.”

“Thank you; you may go,” Sidney says, and opens the envelope with a lightened heart. The missive from Dux Neal reflects the messenger’s personal report, praising the support Sidney has shown and declaring his intent to return three weeks hence given continued peace on the front. There is also a note from Valor Sedin, confirming Dux Neal’s report and acknowledging the lord’s change of heart.

Sidney released a great sigh, lolling his head against the arm of the couch. He half-turns, to say to his Humility, _See? I am not a failure as the emperor_ , but is arrested by the sight of the empty chair. He sighs again, not a release of anxiety but a sound of loss, and picks himself up to move to his bed.

Sidney has an extraordinary shouting match with Clemens Knight via messengers the next morning over whether Sidney should call the council to share the news immediately, or wait until the danger to Sidney's life has more clearly passed. Unfortunately for her, Hilary is distracted by her temple ongoings and has less resources to deal with Sidney's onslaught born of boredom and stubbornness.

Just before lunch, she finally concedes, the slave delivering the message with a meek, “I have never seen the Clemens shout so, Your Imperial Majesty. I believe her face turned fully purple before she finished relaying to me the message.”

“Then I am sure you’d appreciate delivering messages to all the council members to attend to a session this afternoon before returning to her,” Sidney says, and the messenger genuflects before speeding out of the room.

The council chamber is filled with unusual calm when Sidney enters, the lords sitting attentively and quietly with none of their usual gossiping. They stand and salute as one, and Sidney acknowledges it before taking his seat in the throne he rarely uses.

Cautio Foglino, pale and shaking, says, “Your Imperial Majesty, may I be the first to say, I am relieved at your good health after the most recent attempt. I hope that the actions of my cohort are not a reflection on myself--”

“Peace, Cautio Foglino,” Sidney says, and he snaps his mouth shut, looking on the verge of illness. “I will not jump to hasty conclusions, but I have had no reason to suspect you of wrongdoing, especially considering that I am sure the council will attest to your innocence as well. I await the testimony of the traitor to make my judgements and dole out punishments to those who have betrayed the Empire.”

“With the topic broached, I am curious-- has there been any progress with the torture?” Cautio Thornton asks, bloodthirsty as always, and Cautio Dupuis shrugs.

“Saad has been…most resistant,” Cautio Dupuis says as the council swivels to face him. “Our most dedicated and skillful Arbiter-Investigators are working on him, but it seems it may be some time yet before we understand the truth of the situation.”

“Pity,” Cautio Thornton says, though his eyes glimmer. “Please inform me should they need help discovering more inventive methods. I admit, I was most creative in my youth in the wars in the southern wilds, and I haven’t quickly forgotten my lessons from there.”

“Thank you, Cautio Thornton,” Sidney says quellingly, but the lords will not be kept to their initial silence, as Cautio Maatta pipes up immediately.

“Your Imperial Majesty, we all owe a great debt to your Humility. I have been informed that he has been removed from the palace, as I attempted to send a token of my gratitude but it was returned to me. Where is the Humility?”

“The _former_ Humility has been made a freed man in accordance with the service he provided to the Empire,” Sidney says, and shock ripples about the room. “For both his protection and mine, he has been removed from court while his grievous injury heals. While he is convalescing, my housekeeper will collect any tokens that you wish you send him and ensure that they are delivered.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, do you intend to permanently release your Humility from court?” Cautio Stamkos asks hesitantly.

“Yes, I do,” Sidney says, and there’s several disapproving shakes of heads and frowns about the room. “This is not currently a matter of discussion, my lords. The former Humility will be recovering for a considerable amount of time given the nature and gravity of his wound. Today I have called you not for this discussion, but in regards to the eastern front.” Sidney pauses, but the lords are finally resigned to his steering and so he continues, “Yesterday, I received a messenger from the front, carrying missives from both Dux Neal and Valor Sedin. Rejoice, my lords, for all of our efforts have not been for naught. Dux Neal reports that the aqueducts repairs have been completed and the caravan of food has arrived. The citizens have settled and recommitted to the Empire, my lords, and the regiments have found relief in the abeyance of aggression from within.”

“This is fine news indeed, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, leaning forward. “I thank you for having faith in my recommendation of appointing Dux Neal, and I hope you have found yourself satisfied with his actions.”

“Perhaps it was not the smoothest road to a good result, but it is true that Dux Neal has carried the eastern front to peace,” Sidney says. “Upon his return, I expect an audience with yourself and him, Cautio Dupuis, and I expect also that you will arrange an appropriate welcome to him from the court at large.”

“As your will requires, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says.

“Then that is all, council. You are dismissed; until the traitor reveals his secrets, I will see little of you. Go forth and bring glory to the Empire.” The council disperses, and Sidney tries not to hope too greatly.

*     *     *

With the end of the crisis on the eastern front, Sidney finds himself unusually unoccupied, drifting about at loose ends as his council and their cohorts attend to the majority of the district-level issues. In the wake of the second assassination attempt, few request audiences, perhaps in fear of being implicated along with Saad for traitorous activity. Of course, even less are granted, as Sidney's isolation is nearly complete to ensure his continued safety. He receives daily updates from the healer, but they are limited to _recovery proceeds as expected_ , with no personal requests or observations, and Sidney firmly reminds himself that it is best to separate himself from Evgeni to allow the man the greatest success in his life.

Three weeks after the second assassination attempt, during their usual lunchtime meeting, Clemens Knight offhandedly mentions, “Oh, and by the way, Your Imperial Majesty, Sanctus Fleury has been asking after you. I believe he would like an audience at your convenience.”

“Sanctus Fleury?” Sidney repeats, heart sinking at the thought of the topic they last discussed. “Yes, thank you, Clemens Knight, I will send him a messenger.”

Too soon, Sidney stands shifting uneasily outside the temple doors of Amoret. A guard clears his throat pointedly, and Sidney pushes his way in. Though his mind has raced for three days now to try and divine the nature of Sanctus Fleury’s request and how to deflect any questions relating to their previous conversation, he is no closer to any answers.

Sanctus Fleury is waiting in the interior garden in deference to the unexpectedly mild spring day, and Sidney settles next to him on a stone bench. The patch before them is a wild tangle of roses surrounding herbs of various natures relating to the passions of love, and Sidney studies the greenery dutifully until Sanctus Fleury speaks.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I hope I do not intrude upon your schedule,” he says, turning to face Sidney, though Sidney stubbornly continues to observe the garden. “But I find myself worrying over our conversation of several months past.”

“I hope I have not led you to undue worry with my confessions, Sanctus. I was in a time of crisis, and your advice assisted me in ensuring I did not cave in a moment of weakness. That time has passed and the situation is resolved.”

“Is it, Your Imperial Majesty?” Sanctus Fleury asks. “I only ask because the cloud on your countenance has not moved since our discussion, and indeed has grown worse since Dux Saad’s attempt on your life. I hope that you can see me as a confidant, Your Imperial Majesty. I wish only for the best for you, and so I worry.”

“Your consideration is appreciated but unnecessary,” Sidney says firmly. Sanctus Fleury’s expression only grows more resolute, his ubiquitous smile dimming under uncommon seriousness.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I do not wish to overstep my bounds, but I have found it suspicious that your greater sorrow coincided with the dismissal of your Humility,” Sanctus Fleury says, and Sidney feels his face grow hot, his shame on display for all. “I do not mean to suggest anything… inappropriate, of course, but to lose a daily companion that willingly took the fatal blow for you-- as I said, Your Imperial Majesty, I am here to listen should you wish to confide in me.”

“Do you suggest that I repeat the mistakes of Imperator Lemieux?” Sidney asks lowly, and Sanctus Fleury gives a sharp exhale.

“Do you wish for my honest opinion, Your Imperial Majesty? Or should I exercise my discretion to prevent a charge of treason?”

“Speak your mind openly, Sanctus Fleury, and have no worries on your life,” Sidney says, suddenly weary. Even as Clemens Knight counsels him to be suspicious of all, this is a painful reminder that the lack of trust goes in both directions.

“As you wish. I do not believe that you have mimicked exactly Imperator Lemieux’s indiscretions with his Humility, Your Imperial Majesty. What I suspect from our last conversation is that you have felt a similar urge, but have nobly refrained from your urges, fully knowing their unsuitability.”

“Your supposition is not inaccurate, Sanctus,” Sidney says, and buries his face in his hands. A tentative hand settles on Sidney's shoulder, and Sidney cannot bring himself to shrug it off.

“So my confusion lies thusly; as a freed man, he is now accessible to you-- admittedly, he is not an ideal beneficiary given your station, but no specific prohibition exists. Yet you send him away, Your Imperial Majesty; I admit, I do not understand.”

“I cannot-- I am consumed by great fear, Sanctus Fleury,” Sidney confesses, biting at his lip to unsuccessfully suppress the shaking of his shoulders. “He risked his life to save mine, and the thought of an assassin succeeding in ending his life but not mine is unacceptable. But that matters not, given his clear negative feelings towards me. It is better to remove the temptation myself before I submit to my desires and find rejection.”

“I find it hard to imagine a slave with such ‘negative feelings’ towards his master would willingly risk his life to save yours, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sanctus Fleury says. “Perhaps more likely, you find it difficult to interpret the belligerence of a slave that is both sworn to hate you and fighting against his own unfulfilled desires.”

“Regardless, he is gone, as he should be,” Sidney says, and Sanctus Fleury sighs as he gently runs his hand down Sidney's back. It soothes him until it becomes too sharp a reminder of Evgeni running his hands through Sidney's hair.

“Your Imperial Majesty, your passions run deep, and I know it burns to believe love is not reciprocated,” Sanctus Fleury says, and Sidney shrugs his hand off and picks up his head, incensed by the priest’s audacity.

“Sanctus Fleury, to suggest my particular fondness crosses the line to love is indeed too far,” Sidney says frigidly, and Sanctus Fleury bows his head in supplication.

“My most sincere apologies, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says. “I have succumbed the folly of assuming that all action relates to my divinity. I will comment no further.”

Sidney softens in the face of Sanctus Fleury’s contrite and earnest expression. “It is forgotten, Sanctus. Your concern is a kindness, but I assure you, there is nothing further to worry over.”

Still, Sidney is in a foul humor for days afterward, picking at Sanctus Fleury’s words, worrying over the implications. His mood only worsens when a messenger comes for him on a morning, genuflecting before saying, “Your Imperial Majesty, your First Caution and the council requests your presence for an urgent matter.”

“What urgent matter occurs where my council is first informed, and not myself?” Sidney gripes, once again tossing aside his book of poetry. He has been fixated on a particular set for the past hour ( _To me that man seems like a god in heaven / seems-- may I say it?-- greater than all gods are / who sits by me & without interruption / watches me, listens* _) and the distraction should be welcome, but his temper rides close to the surface these days. The messenger quakes but bravely continues, “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, they wish for your presence in the council chamber immediately--”

“Who am I to reject the petitioners of the Empire?” Sidney says, slamming through the door and startling the guards. He is still petulant as he enters the chamber, already completely filled with his council, and he drops into his throne and stares evenly about the room. “What urgent matter do you summon me for, council?” Sidney asks. “I see no fire in the city, I hear no riots in the streets. What happened so quickly that I was not first made aware of it?”

“It is not an item of that nature, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cautio Dupuis says, after a glance passes through the room and clearly volunteers him as the bearer of bad news. “Rather, the council would like to express a particular concern, in light of the recent traitorous actions of the Hundred Houses.”

“I fail to see how the attempts on my life require any additional action from the council, but I will hear your petition regardless,” Sidney says evenly, and he sees from the corner of his eye Clemens Knight roll her eyes. He aims a scowl in her direction, and she settles her hands in her lap and smiles sunnily, as if her goddess bestowed innocence upon her.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Cautio Maatta and I were recently discussing the extraordinary events transpiring with your Humility,” Cautio Perron says, and Sidney sharply corrects, “ _Former_ Humility.” “Former Humility,” Cautio Perron amends. “Far be it from us to question your decisions, Your Imperial Majesty, but we wish to discuss if he will be returning to the city after he has healed.”

“That is a decision for him to make,” Sidney says. “He is a freed man, and his life belongs to himself now, not the Empire.”

This time, Cautio Maatta speaks. “Despite his new status, Your Imperial Majesty, he is still an asset of the Empire. He has been your constant companion throughout your entire reign; what he knows about the Empire, about your divine self, can be too easily used against you!”

“But by the very nature of being freed, he no longer belongs to the Empire,” Sidney says impatiently; he has no desire for the games of the lords on any day, especially in regards to Evgeni. “I do not disagree that his knowledge could be powerful in the incorrect hands, but I do not see that as a necessary reason for his return to the city.”

“I would argue your first point, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Price says in his level way, gesturing shortly at Cautio Maatta to prevent further comment. “We are all lords and citizens here within this chamber, and yet we belong to the Empire, for we have pledged our service and thus received special knowledge. In this way, the former Humility is not dissimilar to ourselves. The circumstances of him receiving that knowledge were beyond his control, but the effects are irrevocable.”

“I concede the point,” Sidney says grudgingly. “But what is the nature of his return? We cannot enslave again a freed man-- it would cause chaos. The first thing citizens would ask is, am I next to be made a slave? No, I will not accept it.”

Cautio Perron rejoins, saying, “Fine, he remains a freed man. But he must live under the eye of the court! He was chosen by the gods to be your Humility, who are we to decide that his duty was discharged?” Sidney's heart pangs at _chosen by the gods_ , a tart reminder that the gods chose Evgeni for Sidney, but Evgeni did not make the same choice.

“And how do you propose he lives in court? Do you believe he should return as the Humility-- can yourselves and the court accept a Humility that holds a different role?” Sidney says. He attempts to rein in his emotions, but the words snap forth. The least that he can provide to Evgeni is his unfettered freedom, and he will defend that as he must to ensure Evgeni’s happiness. “Make no mistake, I will not chain a freed man to the wall. I will not require his silence, his isolation. What will the gossip hounds say? Will I be unfairly condemned through trying to protect myself from ill fates? Will I suffer the comparison again to Imperator Lemieux, even in the light of my innocence? Or will the court truly accept a freed man into their ranks?”

“It _is_ an aberration,” Cautio Dupuis admits. “But frankly, it has its merits. To instate a new Humility now is too risky, and to return one familiar to the role and already proven to honor Your Imperial Majesty is a fine solution. We shall call the Hundred Houses to make an accord. The decision must come from all, or none.”

“No; I shall call the Hundred Houses to hand down my edict,” Sidney says evenly. He sees now the shape of the victory he is about to take, and he thrills. “In order to protect the Empire, I must recall my Humility and reward him as appropriate to his service.”

“He has already been rewarded with his freedom,” Cautio Bergeron says, confused. “He offered to sacrifice his life and so he was given the reward of being a freed man. This is well-established, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“To save the life of the emperor willingly is to demonstrate the soul of a citizen,” Sidney says. “His rightful reward is _citizenship_ , not the pittance of becoming a freed man. And so the role of the Humility, to be in proper balance with the Valor, is to no longer go to a slave unequal in status and influence, but to a citizen of sound mind and judgement, unafraid to criticize the heart of the emperor even as he is willing to praise it. The Humility must remain the constant companion of the emperor, to truly understand his Imperial pride and act as the counterweight, but through duty rather than enslavement.”

A shocked silence rolls through the room, and Sidney resists the urge to crow in victory. “It is… unprecedented, Your Imperial Majesty,” Clemens Knight says slowly. “But I admit, I cannot find any reason for the gods to disfavor it. There is truth in the unevenness of the Emperor’s Balance, and the former Humility’s actions can be naught other but a sign from the gods, to show the true power of the role should it be corrected.”

“It shows an unusual favor to a former slave,” Cautio Ference says doubtfully.

“Tell me, Cautio Ference, the number of Emperor’s Humilities that have willingly taken a blow for their emperors,” Sidney says, and Cautio Ference shrugs and turns up his hands. “Perhaps it is an unusual favor, but we all can agree that it is also unusual circumstance.”

“When is the soonest that the Humility can be recalled?” Clemens Knight asks. “Ensuring that the court is informed before his return will prevent at least some of the gossip.”

“The attending healer has been less than forthcoming,” Sidney admits. “But I will request a date of return. I expect it to be more than a week still, permitting the court to work out their speculation before he returns.”

“Regardless, this news must travel fast,” Clemens Knight says. “For the Humility to return without the understanding of the court will bring great danger upon his head and yours, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Act with speed, not haste,” cautions Clemens Price. “To improperly present this to the court will result in a far greater headache.”

“Then I expect that the council will appropriately show their support, to give the court confidence in the decision,” Sidney says. “Cautiones, clementes, you shall stand with me before the Hundred Houses tomorrow to announce the return of the Humility.”

The council does not look thrilled, but none protest, and Sidney dismisses them and immediately pens a message to the healer attending to Evgeni. It is brief: _Evgeni to be returned to court and reinstated as Emperor’s Humility. Advise immediately of date of soonest return._

Sidney sends the messenger by swiftest horse, and receives an answer after nightfall: _Expect return eight days hence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Catullus 51, first stanza, transl. Charles Martin. 'You' changed to 'me.'


	2. PART TWO

Seven days pass much like the seven before them, Sidney's time filled with forced idleness. The eighth day is fraught with nerves and excitement; as every knock on the door rings out, Sidney turns expectantly, heart drumming up a thunderous war-beat until it opens and reveals merely a messenger or a supplicant. He is exhausted by the end of dinner, drawn too thin by dancing on the cliff’s edge all day, and his time of contemplation consists mostly of exhausted lounging on the couch.

Of course, it is in that moment that a knock sounds and a contingent of guards enter, saluting smartly as the captain says, “Your Imperial Majesty, the Humility, as you requested.” The guards part, showing Evgeni, looking pale and haggard and covered in the dust of the road with his arm bound and his hand tucked into his toga in lieu of a sling. Their eyes meet, and Sidney cannot deny the relief that burns through him.

“Rouse my housekeeper; see to it that his needs are tended to. I require a Humility ready to benefit the Empire, and I cannot expect his full attention and energy when he is dirty from travel and in pain from his wounds.”

“First, I’m need time to talk with emperor,” Evgeni says, shouldering past the guards impudently. “Ten minutes, Your Imperial Majesty.” The title is-- odd, coming from Evgeni, and the guards look dubious, but Sidney waves them out.

“How may I be of assistance, Humility?” Sidney considers the title, and then amends, “Humilis Evgeni.” Just as _Your Imperial Majesty_ fell with a clunk from Evgeni’s lips, so this new title is equally as ungainly to Sidney.

“You send me away, call me freed man but give to family like slave. Now, you call me back, say I’m Humility again? Think I’m pet, to send away when you’re tired and bring back when you want?” Exhaustion dulls Evgeni’s anger, but still it slaps Sidney sharply.

“The council demanded your return for my protection and for yours,” Sidney says. “I feared that denying your return to the city would result in demands on your life. Reinstating you as the Humility was in my mind the most direct solution; you will be both useful and well-guarded in that way, and it eliminates my own concerns with acquiring a new slave to become the Humility.”

“So now you bring back old slave,” Evgeni snarls. “You put collar back on me, after I’m save you? That’s how you get nice answer to problem, take my freedom back?”

“What?” Sidney says, outraged. “I’m not taking-- why-- I never said you were to be a slave again!”

“I’m not stupid,” Evgeni snarls, prowling forward and looming over Sidney. Sidney's breath shortens as he cranes his neck back to look at Evgeni, face twisted in fury. “Think I’m not know what ‘reinstate as Humility’ means? Means put collar back on, means nobody listen to me again.”

“And how do you come to be so sure of this?” Sidney snaps back. “Were you hiding in the council chamber as we discussed the matter? Did one of the lords message you directly after our session? I assure you, despite what you think of me, I have no desire to reverse my decision to make you a freed man. I realize that this is not the reward you seek, but I will not have you wander the districts and risk death-- or _worse_ \-- because of your knowledge of me and of the Empire. By all means, nurse your anger against me if it pleases you, but do not accuse me of that which I do not do. Tomorrow you will be instated as a citizen, as planned by the council, and the role of Humility will be modified to be a true equal to the Valor to preserve the Emperor’s Balance.”

Evgeni is clearly shocked, taking a step back from Sidney and gaping his mouth like a landed fish. Sidney suddenly tires of it all: the difficulty in communicating with Evgeni, the perilous dance of the court, the echoing gap between what his life is and what he desires. “Guards,” Sidney calls, and they enter cautiously, no doubt having heard every word of the argument. “Please show the Humility the way to my housekeeper so that he may be attended to, and permit him his choice of room for his private chambers. I will retire now; good night to all.”

Evgeni is surprisingly meek the next morning, appearing in Sidney's bedchamber at the end of the Ceremony of the Sun, dressed in a white toga and a tunic lined with double Imperial Gold bands. He stands in the far corner from Sidney, good arm crossed under the bandaged one, and returns a cool and even look to the attendants’ nervous glances. Sidney places his diadem and dismisses the attendants, turning to square off with Evgeni. “Good morning, Humilis Evgeni,” Sidney says, and Evgeni visibly swallows.

“Good morning, Your Imperial Majesty,” and indeed the meekness extends even to his voice, unusually deferential. “You’re call me Humilis Evgeni now?”

“In light of how Valor Sedin is commonly addressed, it seems sufficient, though of course a patronymic would be more proper in the form.”

“Humilis Malkin,” Evgeni says, thoughtfully, and shakes his head. “No, I’m not like. Humility is bad, but not so bad as that.”

“Unfortunately, it is not a point of negotiation,” Sidney says. “The Hundred Houses must accept your equivalence to Valor Sedin, and so it must be your formal address. Should you prefer I use a different address in private, however, I will do so.”

“You’re call me Evgeni,” he says flatly. “And I’m call you Sid. Not calling you ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ always, it’s too many words. Too much-- make you forget you’re person like everyone else.”

“How-- how do you know my byname?” Sidney asks, shocked.

Evgeni laughs. “Think I’m sit at Crosby house, not talk to anyone for weeks? No. Taylor tell me everything.” His smile glints with nefarious mischief, and Sidney prays to the gods that Taylor has not revealed _everything_. Unfortunately, it is likely that she did so, the little hellion.

“I assure you, Taylor’s sharp tongue is lined with untruths,” Sidney says, but Evgeni must see it for the desperate bid that it is, for he merely smiles and pokes his tongue out. “This is acceptable. Now, if you will, the Hundred Houses are gathering, and I have no doubt that they wait impatiently for the new chaos that we will strike in them.” Evgeni makes a grand gesture towards the door, so Sidney leads them out to the hall where the guards await them.

The council already stands on the floor of the amphitheater when Sidney and Evgeni arrive, milling amongst themselves but shuffling into order when the guards announce, “His Imperial Majesty, Emperor-God Among Us, Imperator Crosby the First.” The Hundred Houses are in place, curious faces overwhelmed by ill-humored expressions courtesy of either early mornings or late nights.

“Order,” Cautio Dupuis calls, though there is little movement or talk among the risers. “His Imperial Majesty, with the support of the cautiones and the clementes of the council, has been given a sign from the gods. You have been called here today to witness the testimony.”

Sidney steps forward, exhaling slowly as he marshals his thoughts. From the corner of his eye he can see Evgeni, standing relaxed behind his left shoulder, and he takes heart from his Humility’s tranquility. “Lords of the Hundred Houses, the recent unsuccessful attempt on my life has brought the Emperor’s Humility and his righteous deed to the forefront. While I decreed him a freed man upon the eve of him saving my life, further reflection guided by the divine has led me to believe I was too hasty in this action.

“The gods have clearly signaled their favor of the Humility, and have shown us all the might of loyalty to the emperor, a strength never before shown by the Humility. To call a mute and angry slave the balance to the strong military leader that is the Valor is but a farce, my lords, and one to be rectified to please the divine. I, with the support of the council and yourselves, name this man, Evgeni Malkin, to be a full citizen and the Emperor’s Humility. Humilis Malkin will continue to be my constant companion, but as my adviser rather than my property. As so, the Emperor’s Balance is restored, so that I grow once again close to the gods as I ensure the future of the Empire.”

The amphitheater erupts with noise; half of the Hundred stand and yell down at Sidney, and the other half place their heads together to whisper urgently. Dux Staal is one of the loudest; he shouts, “Do you not learn from Imperator Lemieux’s mistakes with his Humility? What folly is this, that we repeat the indiscretions of the past?”

Sidney tenses to shout back, and Evgeni leans over Sidney's shoulder and says quietly, “No, he’s not want to listen, just want to yell. Ignore him.” Sidney holds his tongue, and eventually the cautiones shout their cohorts down until an uneasy truce rules over the assembly.

“My lords, this is not a request for discussion but an edict, necessary to maintain the strength of the Empire and the blessings of the gods,” Sidney says. “My audience chamber is always open should you wish to express further concerns, but Humilis Malkin will carry out his duties regardless of your approval. The gods speak louder than yourselves, my lords, and so we all must listen to their wisdom or risk the destabilization of the Empire.”

When they extricate themselves and return to Sidney's receiving room, Evgeni says dubiously, “it’s good talk, yes?”

“We shall only know if another attempt on my life occurs soon, I suppose,” Sidney says, feeling fatalistic. “Perhaps the lords have felt their chains lengthen, as I have been overly isolated since your departure. This is an unfortunate reminder to them that they must answer to someone more-- directly demanding than the gods.”

“Lots of work to do,” Evgeni says. “lords look at you and think, little child, he’s not can make me do anything. You’re too nice, let them run free, now they think that’s how it’s always go and they’re not have to listen to you.”

“I didn’t--” Sidney says, defensive, and deflates. “It is a fair criticism. And-- I avoid many of them, because Clemens Knight so often counsels me, look out, look out, be suspicious of every lord. But I cannot! How can I question every move, every word, without going mad? It is much easier to just speak frankly with my council, whom I trust, and minimize my time with the rest of the lords.”

“I’m be suspicious,” Evgeni says. “You’re bad at knowing bad people, think everyone be good and do what’s right for Empire. I’m always watch, see what they’re think, why they’re do things. So I’m tell you when lords being bad, then you’re not have to worry, just tell them behave.”

“I-- truthfully, you will do this?” Sidney asks. “I cannot-- I hope that you do not feel obliged to act in any way that you are not comfortable with. You are a citizen now, not indebted to me in any way, and I demanded your return for your safety rather than because of my own desires or from an expectation of your contribution. Should you desire to, you may ignore me completely for the remainder of my reign, and it will be well within your rights to do so.”

“Ignore you?” Evgeni asks, brow furrowed. “Why I’m ignore you? I’m want to help, why else I’m offer?”

“You… wish to help me?” Sidney says, swaying and collapsing onto a couch. “I would have never-- well, thank you, and I accept.”

“You would have never what?” Evgeni challenges, leaning on the arm of the couch until his face is so close that Sidney can see the gentle flecks of color in his eyes.

“I would have never thought that you would wish to help me,” Sidney whispers, reaching out to drag his fingers across the dark, dappled maroon scars curving around the base of Evgeni’s neck. Evgeni sighs explosively, head dropping to hang between his shoulders, and Sidney hastily withdraws his hand.

“Of course I’m help you,” Evgeni says the arm of the couch. “You’re always good to me, even when I’m slave, when you’re not have to. I’m tell you this already, you know, but you’re so bad at listen you’re not remember. Do I’m have to tell you all the time before you’re understand this?”

“Maybe,” Sidney says, and Evgeni shakes his head roughly. Still, Evgeni says, “Fine,” before straightening up and moving to take his own couch. “So I’m think, you’re still not know who’s try to kill you, yes?” Evgeni continues, and Sidney nods mutely. “I’m have a thought, but I’m also think you won’t like.”

“I doubt there is any lord that I would be pleased to be betrayed by, so please, share.”

Evgeni bites his lip, eyeing Sidney doubtfully before saying, “It’s not lord. Sanctus Zetterberg, I’m think he’s trouble.”

“No!” Sidney yelps. Evgeni frowns at him, and Sidney winces and says, “I apologize. Continue.”

“It’s many reasons I’m think this.” Evgeni holds up a hand and ticks his fingers off as he lists, “Both assassin lords from his tribute, arrow has Iras’ symbol, advice to Dux Neal meant to make more deaths which feeds Iras, Dux Neal _also_ in tribute, and most important he’s always careful to not say he’s in support of you.”

“I understand all but the last-- can you explain it to me?” Sidney asks, thinking back on all of his conversations with Sanctus Zetterberg, but he recalls no suspicion.

“He’s always say, ‘I’m do for Empire,’ ‘It’s best for Empire,’ never anything about you. Everybody else say, ‘I’m support Your Imperial Majesty,’ he’s only one not say that.”

“But how does that mean that he is the root of the betrayal? I believed it to be an expression of loyalty to the Empire.”

“He’s loyal to Empire, but what he thinks Empire should be. I’m think he wants Empire not how you’re lead, so he’s get tribute to assassinate you, then he’s have emperor that does everything he’s ask. Don’t have to risk life, don’t have to change tradition of no Sancti taking throne, but still he’s run Empire how he’s want.” Evgeni shrugs, toppling over to lie on the couch. “But it’s just how I’m think, you’re decide if you’re like it or not.”

“I would not have asked for your thoughts had I not wanted to hear them,” Sidney says absently. “I admit, it is not what I would have wished to hear, but I fear that I have no good rebuttal other than my instincts.”

“Want me to say, it’s all Dux Staal?” Evgeni asks, a teasing twist to his lips. “Sorry, he’s just regular asshole, not overthrow you asshole.”

“It is an insult to his heritage to call him a regular asshole,” Sidney says insolently. “He is the finest-bred asshole, from a long line of assholes stretching back into the asshole of history. Verily, his aroma precedes him,” and then Sidney can continue no further, as they have both dissolved into helpless laughter. When Sidney regains his composure, he says, “With Sanctus Zetterberg-- I do not believe there is aught we can do now, though I will be sure to hold my tongue before him. With any luck, Saad will break soon and confirm or deny any connection.”

“It’s most you can do,” Evgeni says, eyes still sparkling with mirth. “Now, I’m miss all gossip while I’m gone! Tell me everything.”

*     *     *

Sidney quickly settles into a new routine with the return of Evgeni. The Humility is nearly as quiet now as when he was a slave, often lurking in corners of rooms and watching the proceedings with sharp eyes. At least, he is quiet until he is alone with Sidney; when there are no observers, he is charmingly straightforward, catching Sidney off-guard every time.

Today’s moment of frankness comes at lunch. The weather is fine, sunny and not too hot for nearly being summer, and Sidney and Evgeni are eating together in the gardens to enjoy the peace and fresh air. To Sidney’s left, the first lilies of the summer are beginning to unfurl their petals, and he ignores his companion in favor of gazing at the garden.

“I’m always sad I’m not see lilies at Crosby villa,” Evgeni says, startling Sidney both with the suddenness of his voice and the particular topic he has chosen. “The way you’re say about them, I’m think they’re beautiful.”

“They are,” Sidney says, but his mind is blank otherwise. How long has it been since he has thought of his family? How ungrateful of a son is he, for forgetting those most precious to him?

Sidney tries to fumble for words as he notices Evgeni’s soft, evaluating expression, but Evgeni speaks first. “But I’m also know now that lilies not only good thing about Crosby villa. I’m not tell you, but Taylor, she’s best for having fun. I’m never bored with her, but always in trouble.”

“She is quite the hellion,” Sidney says, feeling a smile spread across his face. “I imagine that the trouble you were in was always entertaining.”

“For her, maybe,” Evgeni says darkly. “I’m there only one week, try to keep to myself, you know? Not want to be a burden on family, just want to heal and leave. I’m go into bathing chamber one morning, and it’s strange because I pass Taylor on my way. She’s never up so early! But I’m not think anything until I open door. I’m wake everybody, I’m scream so loud! So many frogs in bath, on floor, climbing walls, I’m think gods send curse, have to bathe with frogs now.” Sidney tips back in his chair, laughing, and Evgeni joins him in his mirth. He remembers doing much the same prank to Taylor one spring, gathering up baby frogs in the early morning mist and carrying them to the bathing chamber, tipping them out from the folds of his toga and returning to the lake for more. She, too, had screamed loud enough to wake the household, and Sidney was sent to weed the garden for days afterwards as punishment. Her revenge was the greater punishment, though; she filled his bed with hedgehogs, which Sidney unfortunately discovered in the most direct manner.

“I assume you enacted some similar scheme against her?” Sidney asks, voice filled with mirth, and Evgeni casts his eyes down to his plate and shrugs meekly.

“Oh, I’m never do such a thing. But it’s strange story, two days after frogs I ask Taylor for a little favor. I’m not feeling very good, so I’m want a nice treat for me, you know? So I’m say to her, can you find me special honey? She says yes, I’m go and find, what kind do you want? I’m tell her about special honey like my mama used to give me. Everyone know it’s heal you when you’re sick, so of course I should have some. It’s butterfly honey, from rare butterfly, but market should have it.”

“Butterfly honey?” Sidney interjects incredulously, and Evgeni nods firmly in response.

“Just like you she says, butterfly honey? I’m never hear of it. So I’m tell her about special butterflies, with wings yellow and black like bees, that make butterfly honey. Of course market will have it, you’re just have to ask. Then she looks for butterfly honey for three days. Every day, go to market and ask, everybody tells her to talk to another person. It’s three days until someone at market tells her it’s not real.”

Sidney laughs again, placing his face into his hands, and somehow the sound becomes hysterical, edged with sobs as his shoulders shake. He doesn’t-- Taylor is fine and healthy and growing up well, he knows this, but today it is almost as if she is dead because they are so far apart. Or rather, as if _Sidney_ is dead, as if his body was laid out in the arena so many months ago despite his promise to her. It seems an insurmountable injustice that Evgeni has been with his family while Sidney is barred from them despite his far greater desire for their comfort. He jerks as something touches his back, but as Evgeni shushes gently at him, he realizes that it’s Evgeni’s hand rubbing firmly between his shoulder blades.

“Shh, shh, it’s good, everything is good,” Evgeni soothes, and Sidney leans forward until his forehead rests against the table, narrowly missing the half-finished platter of lunch. “I’m sorry, I’m not want to upset, I think you want to hear about Taylor.”

“I do,” Sidney bites out between sobs. “I miss them so,” he confesses, and the words burn as they pass his lips. It feels like a final admission that he will never again see his family; though he has known for so long that there is no other option, he has rejected it as the truth until now.

“They miss you too,” Evgeni says quietly, but it only causes Sidney to weep harder for the pain he has caused them in addition to himself. “Your mama and papa, they ask me right away how you are, if you’re safe. I’m tell them everything I can, that you’re safe, that you’re try so hard at being emperor, that you’re always work to be better. Your mama and papa, they’re so proud when I’m tell them about what I’m hear of arena, how you save Cautio Dupuis and spare everyone you can. They’re most proud that you take care of citizens first, though. They say, that’s Sidney we raised, that’s why House of Crosby always proud of him.”

Thankfully, Evgeni ceases after that final, gut-wrenching comment, and Sidney is able to slowly piece himself back together in the silence of the garden, accompanied only by bird calls and the relentless motion of Evgeni’s hand. The sun has visibility moved in the sky before Sidney’s breath evens out and he says lowly, “I thank you for bringing good tidings to my family, and for returning such news to me as well. The requirements I am under as emperor are difficult; the distance between my family and me is too great for comfort, and today I am reminded too strongly of this fact.”

Evgeni’s silence stretches long enough that Sidney shrugs off the Humility’s hand and picks up his head, scrubbing roughly at his face with the sleeve of his tunic to eliminate the signs of his distress. Evgeni looks thoughtful, staring meditatively at the patch of lilies while Sidney cleans himself. Finally, he says, “It’s always hard to lose family. My mama, papa, brother, they’re all dead now. But I’m think that doesn’t mean now I’m not have family forever, because maybe I’m find new family. Your family’s not dead, but it’s not mean you can’t find new family too.”

“Find a new family?” Sidney scoffs roughly, clearing his throat as he picks up a piece of bread. “I cannot change my blood, nor do I have a desire to.”

“Family is more than what house you’re from,” Evgeni says, lips pulling down. “It’s people who be with you, who help you, who-- love you,” he finishes delicately, and Sidney cannot meet his gaze, staring down at his plate instead as he dabs his bread into honey and places it in his mouth. “You’re think Cautio Dupuis doesn’t think of you like son? You’re think Clemens Knight doesn’t treat you like brother? Your mama and papa and Taylor are far away, but it’s not mean you’re not have any family here at all.”

“The family of an emperor,” Sidney says slowly, tasting the words as if they are the finest wine. “And can I count you among that family, Humilis Malkin?”

Evgeni leans over the table between them, catching Sidney’s eye and holding his gaze by the strength of his expression, fierce and proud and loyal. “Always,” he vows, and Sidney’s breath stills under the force of the word. “And you? I’m can say you’re part of my family?”

“Of course, Evgeni,” Sidney says, and Evgeni’s satisfied nod is barely finished when a messenger arrives, panting, with a summons and whisks them off.

*     *     *

It amazes Sidney, the ease with which he can speak with Evgeni after that conversation. Where once Sidney sought out quiet and isolation to rest, now he turns to Evgeni to gain solace whenever he is able. Sometimes they discuss the day’s happenings, or the most recent gossip, and sometimes their conversations wander further afield, as it does on a night a bare week later.

Evgeni sits next to his mostly-empty dinner platter, mindlessly running his fingers over the recently revealed scar twisting along his arm as Sidney picks at the remains of his own meal. Two days ago, the healer had proclaimed Evgeni’s arm “as healed as it may ever be,” and the sight of the angry red gash is still new to Sidney along with Evgeni’s hesitation as he struggles with the occasionally uncooperative elbow. “Man come to my room last night,” Evgeni says eventually into the silence. Sidney feels a scowl crawl across his face unbidden; for all that he and Evgeni have found a certain truce, there’s things a man doesn’t need to know.

“If you take use of the pleasure slaves, I fail to see how the matter involves me,” Sidney snaps, turning onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. Evgeni makes an exasperated noise before something bounces off of Sidney's shin. “What was that?”

“It’s strawberry,” Evgeni says. “Next time maybe I’m throw whole platter, so behave.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Humility,” Sidney says snottily.

Sidney can practically hear Evgeni rolls his eyes, but surprisingly he continues, “What I’m try to say is, man I’m know come to my room. Man who gave me knife that I’m try stab you with so long ago.”

“What?” Sidney says, sitting up and turning to Evgeni. “Somebody gave you that knife?”

“How else you think I’m get it?” Evgeni asks, incredulous. “Think I’m just take off collar, walk to kitchen and take it? Think I’m ask guard, can you bring me knife, and they say, yes, we bring to you tonight, oh, and we take off chain too?”

“I honestly hadn’t considered it,” Sidney says defensively. “I was at the time rather more concerned with the fact that I had woken up to you threatening me, and then there were several distractions afterwards to prevent my speculation.”

Evgeni huffs. “Well, now I’m tell you. This man, he bring me knife, he’s unchain me from wall. He’s say he’s have friends, powerful friends, who make me free after I’m kill you, but I’m couldn’t do it so he’s not come back. But now he’s come to me again.”

“Did he give you another knife?” Sidney asks. It must not be a member of the court; Evgeni knows the lords and their common associates as well as Sidney does.

“No, he’s not give me knife this time. But he ask, will I betray you? He say, emperor free me, but still let me be slave first, that emperor deserve punish for keeping Humility.”

“I assume that you told him ‘no’ in regards to betraying me, given the fact that you’re discussing this with me now,” Sidney says.

“Maybe,” Evgeni says complacently. “Or maybe I’m just try and confuse you, who’s know?”

“Very amusing,” Sidney says, though his heart still thumps uneasily at the possibility of Evgeni being truthful.

“Yes, yes, I’m most funny,” Evgeni says. “But really, I’m think we can use him to find if Sanctus Zetterberg involved. Last night I’m tell him, I’m think about betray you. I’m want to meet with him again, find out why he’s want you to be killed. Everybody does things for reason, I’m want to know his.”

“I returned you to the city to ensure your safety, not to involve you deeper in the deceptions of court,” Sidney says unhappily. “But should you wish to pursue this, I cannot in good conscience convince you otherwise.”

Evgeni has no immediate answer, instead staring at Sidney's face as if he can divine an answer in the shape of Sidney's eyes or the curve of his nose. “Can’t always keep others safe,” Evgeni says. “I’m learn this, I’m know you know it too.”

“To know it and to feel it are two separate things,” Sidney says. “And the gods know that I have had little success in controlling my feelings, especially those that are beyond suitable.” Sidney flushes; immediately he knows that he has revealed too much, and Evgeni’s curious, cocked-head expression does not bode well for Sidney.

Surprisingly, Evgeni does not comment directly, instead coming forth with a non-sequitur. “Sanctus Fleury introduce himself to me two days ago,” is the slow and thoughtful response, and Sidney freezes. “I’m not know why he want to talk to me, but he’s ask after you, want to know if you’re happy. I’m say, you’re want to know His Imperial Majesty’s thoughts, you’re ask him, but-- now I’m think, maybe not so strange for him to ask me this.”

“The priests shall do as they wish, I believe that he means nothing by his inquiry--” Sidney babbles, but Evgeni ignores him, standing and sauntering over to Sidney. He swings a leg over Sidney's couch, straddling the furniture but not touching Sidney, and places a hand on either side of Sidney's head on the arm of the couch, still favoring the uninjured arm to hold his weight.

“You’re say to me long time ago, you’re never think of me as slave,” Evgeni says, still thoughtful, and Sidney breathes what he hopes is his last, surely flushed from neck to hair with embarrassment. “You’re have pleasure slave that’s look just like me, you’re have feelings you know you shouldn’t, and priest of Amoret comes to me about your happiness.”

“A man’s desire cannot be controlled, but that does not mean it should be acted on,” Sidney says, eyes stubbornly closed. No matter his personal resolve, he is not sure that he could resist the sight of Evgeni over him in this moment.

“Ah, so it’s desire,” Evgeni says, satisfied, and Sidney curses. “What? Why you’re mad? It’s not bad thing.”

“It’s not appropriate. Imperator Lemieux had his Humility put to death for such indiscretions, you know,” Sidney says firmly. He is sure of this, and if he must chant it to himself to remember it, well, it is the price he must pay.

“But it’s nice,” Evgeni whispers into Sidney's ear, and Sidney squeaks. “And I’m not old Humility-- not slave-- and you’re not old emperor. Can’t make that excuse.”

“I-- we shouldn’t,” Sidney whispers back, but his body betrays him as Evgeni bites at his earlobe and he melts into the couch, moaning.

“Shouldn’t? Or don’t want to?” Evgeni pauses, as if the answer actually matters, and Sidney opens his eyes, whimpering at the closeness of Evgeni to him, the considering expression on his face. “Tell me you’re want,” he says, and Sidney tips his head back, helpless with embarrassment.

“I want it,” he chokes out, finally, and his blood burns as Evgeni sweetly kisses at the long stretch of Sidney's neck. Sidney squirms, desperate for Evgeni to pin him down, to take his shame from him and give him nothing but pleasure. “You’re chaste bride with pleasure slaves, yes? But now I’m show you how to find desire, how to give your release to me.”

“I know how to find my own release,” Sidney says indignantly, pulling back into the couch. “As I have said, it is only due to your bewitching of me that I have suffered any dysfunction!”

“Bewitching,” Evgeni repeats, a smirk growing as he rolls the word over his tongue. “You’re not know bewitching yet, now I’m show you this too.” Contrary to his words, Evgeni pulls back, Sidney letting out an involuntary whimper. Evgeni shushes him, standing and offering a hand to pull Sidney up with. “Bed is better than couch,” Evgeni says as he brings Sidney to his feet. He slides behind Sidney, hands landing heavily on Sidney's hips as he guides them towards the bedroom. Occasionally, Evgeni’s hips bump against Sidney's ass as they mistime a step, and Sidney thinks he can feel the barest brush of Evgeni’s cock, all the more tantalizing for the teasing touches.

They stop next to the bed, Evgeni releasing Sidney and tugging his toga off carelessly. Sidney turns to see Evgeni removing his own toga and dropping it, the pale white a shock against the bright gold of Sidney's. Evgeni reaches for his belt and pauses, staring back at Sidney and saying, “What, mighty emperor not know how to take off clothes? So spoiled by slaves he’s too stupid to do anything himself?” Sidney feels himself flush, chin dropping as he stares determinedly at his belt to avoid the look of scorn on Evgeni’s face. Sidney's thoughts move like honey, a slow, sweet drip to match the sluggish fumble of his fingers as he removes his belt and tunic and slips off his sandals. He’s beginning to worry at the knots of his loincloth when Evgeni grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him onto the bed, reclining from side to side instead of in the correct direction.

Evgeni sits heavily on the tops of Sidney's thighs, his loincloth still in place but otherwise bare, and Sidney trembles. Evgeni’s gaze is even, delving deep within to see the shape of Sidney's soul that is so open and wanting for him. Sidney's nerves blaze with sensation: the press of Evgeni against his flesh, the eddies of air within the room, the tiny sounds and flickers of flames in the lamps.

Sidney opens his mouth to speak, to _beg_ , when Evgeni finally reaches forward, tangling his fingers in Sidney's loincloth and deftly undoing the knots. Sidney's flushed cock springs free, lolling against his hip as Evgeni removes his own loincloth. Sidney tries to stare, greedy for the sight of Evgeni’s dick, but he can only steal but a glimpse before Evgeni stretches out atop him, digging an elbow into the mattress near Sidney's head to balance himself above Sidney.

At the first touch of Evgeni’s hand, Sidney moans, though Evgeni moves too slowly, too loosely around his cock. “Please, faster,” he pleads, but Evgeni makes a disgruntled noise and lets go. His hand finds Sidney's nipple and he tweaks it _hard_ , Sidney yelping and curling with the pain and peculiar wave of pleasure that follows.

“You can’t perform with pleasure slave and then tell me how it’s done?” Evgeni scolds, resting his hand on the tender skin around the base of Sidney's dick as Sidney catches his breath, eyes closed. “I’m not think so. You’re behave and I’m show you how to use your cock, you’re not behave and I’m leave.” Sidney opens his eyes and Evgeni’s expression is serious; it’s clear he has no choice but to cede should he wish this to continue. And oh, how he _wishes_.

“Fine,” Sidney chokes out, and Evgeni rewards him with a filthy smile and the pressure of his hand around Sidney's cock. Admittedly, he grips firmer now, though the movement is still too slow, but Sidney cannot obsess over such things as Evgeni begins to speak.

“Look at how you blush,” Evgeni says, nosing at Sidney's cheek, and Sidney feels the burn spread as he flushes darker. “So shy, so desperate. You’re not know the touch of another hand, hmm? Not like this, when you like it so much. I’m think pleasure slaves, they’re too obedient, they do exactly as you want instead of exactly as you need. I’m give you what you need, until you’re not think of anything else.”  

“Evgeni,” Sidney gasps, because it’s more true than he would admit, and Evgeni bites his collarbone, another sharp shock of pain that has Sidney twisting with it. The pressure of Evgeni’s hand eases before something else presses up against Sidney's cock. It takes Sidney a moment to realize it’s Evgeni’s dick, hot and hard, and Sidney makes some pitiful noise with the realization as Evgeni’s hand resumes its movement.

“You’re bewitched yet?” Evgeni asks, and Sidney curses, stuttering as Evgeni squeezes their cocks together. “You think you’re know what bewitched is, but after this I’m think you never forget this, forget me. Every time you touch your cock, you’re remember this. Every time you want to find release, you’re hear me talk to you. Maybe you’re not my bride, but still this always belongs to me, Sid.”

Evgeni’s words and hand bring Sidney to orgasm and he cries out as he spills, completely subsumed in the scent of sex and the feel of Evgeni against him. Sidney lies limp against the bed with his eyes barely slitted open as Evgeni brings himself to completion, his seed dripping stickily across Sidney's skin. He sags over Sidney for a bare moment, head bowed, before sitting back on his heels with a sigh and tugging Sidney's loincloth from beneath his hips. Evgeni wipes Sidney clean with it before tossing it aside, eyes demurely avoiding Sidney's gaze, and he stands and dresses quickly.

Not a word passes between them as Evgeni takes his leave. Sidney lies sideways on his bed for some time, a thousand thoughts chasing each other around his mind. No clarity comes with the rising sun, and even worse, there is a strangeness in the air between them in the light of the new day and for days afterward. Uneasy silences fall between them, unspoken words teeming in the air. Sidney wants to ask a thousand questions but instead he holds back everything, letting silence crawl over them from sunrise to sunset.

*     *     *

Eleven days have passed since the encounter in the night. Each day has lasted an eternity in silence, Sidney counting the passage of time by obsessing over every second of the night in question and every second since. He has noted in the flick of Evgeni’s eyelashes every glance aimed towards him, in the part of Evgeni’s bowed lips every sigh drifting through the air and buffeting him. Yet no answers lie in the tiny movements or the massive quiet between them, so Sidney cannot help but fret, picking at his lunch as Evgeni steadily eats his meal.

The silence that has lain between them for so long suddenly crests and becomes unbearable. Sidney does not understand if he is being punished for some transgression during their night together, or if Evgeni has lost all interest in him from some personal failing he discovered in bed, but he abruptly knows that he has had enough of _not_ knowing. The fear of never repairing the bond they share overcomes the fear of knowing the true answer, and Sidney drops his bread and looks at Evgeni. “Shall we never speak to each other again, until the day we expire from our mutual boredom?” Sidney says, and Evgeni barks a short, surprised laugh, looking up from his plate.

“I’m never bored, always most interesting to watch you get mad at council,” Evgeni says, and Sidney flushes, as it is an obvious rebuke for shouting down Clemens Quick two days ago over his continued spurious accusations of favoritism.

“I would not have made such a fool of myself had you had tempered my rage sooner,” Sidney mutters. Had Evgeni left him to shout at the clemens to embarrass him? Would he sink to such petty revenge for an unknown slight?

“I’m stop Quick as soon as I’m tell Cautio Kesler how to keep Dux Downie from challenge Dux Seguin to duel,” Evgeni says patiently. “Can’t do everything at once, Sid.” Hearing his byname from Evgeni’s lips throws Sidney back to that night in an instant:   _Maybe you’re not my bride, but still this always belongs to me, Sid._ Sidney struggles for a breath, blinded by the sense-memory of Evgeni’s hands on his body and the pleasure that followed. He gasps too loud as he banishes the memory, dragging himself back to the moment and Evgeni’s curious gaze.

“But you spoke directly to Clemens Quick instead of conferring with me as you would have done before,” Sidney says. “Just as you have not spoken to me about _anything_ for many days. So once more I ask, shall we never speak plainly with each other again?” Sidney can feel the purse of his lips as he stares his challenge at Evgeni, and too he can feel the gentle tremor coursing through his body. He has not felt fear like this since the day that Evgeni was injured to save his life, and the chance that he could lose Evgeni seems equally as great on this day as it was then.

“We’re not speak plainly now?” Evgeni asks rhetorically before looking down at his lap and worrying at his lip. Sidney wants to speak, to fill the void between them, but he holds strong in the hope that Evgeni will continue. “I’m not know how you think after that night,” Evgeni says lowly, and Sidney nearly weeps in satisfaction at the raw honesty in his voice. “I’m not want to make you feel awkward, but also I’m not know at all how you feel after. So then I’m not know what’s right thing to say, you know?”

“And that is your reason for eleven days of silence?” Sidney asks incredulously. It seems so tiny compared to the litanies of his faults that he thought of every night, wondering which Evgeni would use against him. “You were silent for so long because you did not know what to say?”

“You’re not talk either! You’re have better reason? Or it’s the same, you’re not know what to say?” Evgeni snaps back, and Sidney feels his chin raise even as he flushes more, too proud to admit the truth of Evgeni’s words. Evgeni huffs, clearly interpreting Sidney’s lack of answer as assent. “So you can’t say it’s bad reason because it’s your reason too.”

“So,” Sidney says, soldiering past the point, “Should I expect this to occur more than once? A night spent together, followed by days upon days of silence, of ignoring the benefits we take of each other?”

Evgeni looks up at Sidney, eyes wide, as he asks, “You’re still want to be beneficiary?” His surprise stings; did he think Sidney was so unfulfilled by their encounter that he does not wish to repeat it?

“Do you believe I should not desire another such exploit?” Sidney says. He tries to level his voice, but it sounds accusatory regardless, cracking between them.

Evgeni’s lips thin briefly before his expression smoothes out and he tips his chin down again to stare into his own lap. “I’m tell you, I’m not know what you want. It’s rude to assume you’re want it again, I’m think you’re silent because you’re regret or it’s bad, so I’m also think it’s only time ever. Can’t read your mind, Sid. I’m only know what you tell me, and you’re not tell me _anything_.” Evgeni’s voice twists with bitterness at the last words, forming a spear that lodges itself in Sidney’s chest. He aches from the knowledge that he has driven Evgeni to even a small unhappiness, and there is no other option but to repair the rift between them.

“I am sorry,” Sidney says deliberately, leaning forward to try and capture Evgeni’s gaze. “I… it was thoughtless of me, to assume that you knew my mind. I thought it was clear that I did not object to our activities, and indeed enjoyed our time together. I understood your silence as your own disapproval of the arrangement, and I did not wish to invite a discussion I felt would be painful.”

Evgeni meets Sidney’s eyes, lips pursed slightly, and he almost seems to be waiting for something. Sidney waits, too, stomach bubbling with impatience and dread in anticipation of Evgeni’s words. Finally, he says, “I’m forgive. I’m not disapprove, just confused. I understand now, but I’m also need something from you.”

“Anything,” Sidney vows desperately, and the tiny smile Evgeni gives him is both wry and sad.

“We’re say before, we’re family for each other now. But family can’t be quiet, can’t hide truth from each other. Promise you’re talk to me, and I’m promise I’m talk to you, so we’re not die of boredom from silence when there’s problems.”

Sidney laughs, more from relief than from Evgeni’s weak attempt at humor. “Yes, I promise,” he says, and it feels almost reckless, like he is teetering on the edge of a great chasm without any knowledge of what lies at the bottom.

Evgeni is nodding, satisfied, when a messenger bursts into the audience chamber. “Urgent message, Your Imperial Majesty, Cautio Dupuis and Clementes Knight and Price request your presence,” the slave says, and Sidney is opening his mouth to ask when he says, “they say it is about the traitors.”

They leap to their feet and practically sprint down the halls to the council chamber, the first action they have taken in unison since their night together. Satisfaction winds through Sidney’s veins and settles deep within his bones; if naught else, again he can rely on Evgeni. His thoughts are interrupted as they enter the council chamber and find the three mentioned by the slave waiting, along with another wearing the blood-red robes of the Arbiter-Investigators.

They all bow, the questioner looking awestruck, before Clemens Price says, “Your Imperial Majesty, I fear that the arbitri have found the answer to our questions about the traitors. This is Arbiter-Investigator Pacioretty.” He nods at the questioner, who bobs his head before speaking.

“Your Imperial Majesty, we have not acted in haste with this information, for it is so delicate of a situation, but it is confirmed.” The Arbiter-Investigator hesitates; his calm demeanor cracks slightly as he continues, “Sanctus Zetterberg drove Saad to the attempt on your life. He promised Saad an easy emperorship, with Sanctus Zetterberg acting as his adviser and confidant. We fear that all plots on your life have come from him; Dux Saad has indicated that the tributes of Iras have discussed between themselves the various betrayals upon you.”

“I had the tributes watched, after Dux Neal’s confession!” Clemens Knight says indignantly into the shocked silence. “And yet I caught no word of their indiscretions.”

Arbiter-Investigator Pacioretty’s lips thin as he says, “You are welcome to join us in our questioning to garner a more specific answer, Clemens, but it is likely that they suspected that they were being watched. Saad has said that the group was most cautious, especially as their plots continued to fail. If you will excuse me, council, our work is unceasing.” He bows and steps out of the room, the council still staring numbly at each other.

Clemens Knight lets out a strangled scream, thumping her fist against the cushion of her couch before standing and pacing angrily about the room. Clemens Price and Cautio Dupuis look grim though resolute and Evgeni grins, clearly vindicated.

“It’s how I think,” the Humility says, and Clemens Knight whirls around to stare at him.

“You suspected this?” she asks, incredulous. “And this is the first time I hear of your doubts, why?”

“I’m not your Humility,” Evgeni says, eyes narrowing. “I’m here for His Imperial Majesty, not you, and I’m tell him.”

“Peace,” Sidney commands, as Clemens Knight looks ready to start a fight here in the council room. “Humilis Malkin did indeed inform me some time ago of his suspicions, and I determined it too dangerous to become a rumor, so I did not discuss it further with any member of the council. Unfortunately, it seems that he is proven true, and now we must deal with Sanctus Zetterberg appropriately.”

“He must be questioned, to ensure he is the root of the disloyalty,” Clemens Price says with distaste. “We must have him removed from office immediately. He is a stain upon the Sancti.”

“Just one more question,” Evgeni says. “Another man, I’m not know who he is, but he’s come to me twice, asking me to betray His Imperial Majesty. We’re try capture him before Zetterberg?”

“We cannot risk anyone warning Sanctus Zetterberg and allowing him to escape,” Clemens Knight says immediately. “Justice must be swift and complete to stem the tide of treason.”

“Perhaps the public arrest of Sanctus Zetterberg will drive this man to desperate measures to achieve his goals,” Cautio Dupuis says thoughtfully. “Humilis Malkin, do you believe that he is devoted to Sanctus Zetterberg’s cause, or merely a pawn?”

“I’m think he’s want something, something that Zetterberg gives him after new emperor in place,” Evgeni says. “If Zetterberg arrested, yes, I’m think he’s desperate, will come again and tell me what he’s want.”

“Then we shall not let the spider escape,” Clemens Knight declares. “Bring us the captain of the guard, and we will have the traitor trapped in the web of his own making until we determine his justice.”

The council decides that the safest place for Sidney to be until Zetterberg is safely apprehended and imprisoned is in his chambers. Evgeni throws himself into his customary chair when they enter the room, but Sidney cannot sit, pacing his habitual path about the room. Evgeni permits him his vice for no more than ten minutes, barking an impatient, “Enough!”

Sidney turns on his heel, grateful for a fight to direct his energy towards. “And who are you, to dictate my actions to me?” he demands, jutting his chin forward as Evgeni stares challengingly at him. “Are you my mother, to send me to my rooms when I have misbehaved? Shall I go and lie on the bed and wait for you to give permission for me to stand again?”

Evgeni hums thoughtfully before saying, “Sounds nice. Go lie on bed, Sid, and you’re not touch yourself, only good boys get to have pleasure.”

“Then certainly you shall not have such an opportunity tonight, given your poor behavior,” Sidney says between the grit of his teeth. “I would have you spread out, taken to the edge again and again but never rewarded until you learn how to leash your impertinent tongue.”

“Now I’m impertinent? No ‘Thank you, Evgeni, you find bastard who’s try to overthrow me,’ no ‘Sorry, Evgeni, for not believe you when you say Zetterberg bad,’ instead you’re mad because I’m say truth?” Evgeni huffs as he slings a leg over the arm of the chair, spreading his legs indecently wide to taunt Sidney. “Little dog has big bark today, yes?”

“Once you told me that you didn’t think I’d ever find my balls,” Sidney says. “Are you truly so surprised by my manhood? I am not a fainting virgin or a sheltered child. I am emperor, and you are a citizen in my service.” In his anger, Sidney has stepped close to Evgeni, until Evgeni must crane his neck to look up at Sidney. His eyes look especially wide and dark from this angle, and his rakish position in the chair begins to stir Sidney's blood with a different passion than anger.

“In your service, you say. What kind of service you’re mean, I’m wonder?” Sidney feels himself flush but he does not allow his chin to drop in shame.

“Would you like to find out?” Sidney challenges. Evgeni gives him a long, level look before nodding shortly. “After you,” Sidney says, stepping back and motioning towards the bedroom door. Evgeni stands and precedes him, and Sidney places his hand on Evgeni’s lower back as he follows, urging Evgeni forward.

Sidney stops Evgeni with a firm hand at the waist after they enter the bedroom. “Stay,” he says, and Evgeni raises an eyebrow at him but acquiesces for now. The chair next to the bed practically calls Sidney's name and he goes, assuming the same confident slump that Evgeni had just used, including his leg propped indecently up on the arm. “Strip,” Sidney says with a lazy wave of the hand. He gives the command with no expectation of obedience but rather as a vehicle to progress the night, yet Evgeni reaches for the tail of his toga and pulls it from his shoulder, swirling the cloth about him before discarding it on the floor.

Sidney cannot deny the excitement that courses through him, his cock already starting to swell. Evgeni steps closer as he loosens the belt of his tunic, stopping just out of reach from Sidney as he drops the belt. The greatest thrill is that the power Evgeni allows Sidney is freely given; his sultry look is not compelled but gifted, and his slow, teasing dance of removing clothes is his desire as much as it is Sidney's. Evgeni lifts the tunic over his head, dropping it to the ground before deftly unknotting his loincloth to let it fall.

Last time-- _Last time_ , Sidney thinks wildly, _How has this happened not once but twice?_ \-- there was no time for Sidney to appreciate, so he absorbs the moment now as Evgeni stands unselfconsciously before him. Evgeni is ridiculously, almost unbelievably long of limb, legs stretching on perhaps without end. Sidney stares, following their shape, which naturally leads his eyes to Evgeni’s cock. It too is long, only beginning to swell but already betraying the ferocious size that Sidney recalls from before. Overall, Sidney cannot find any trace of classical beauty past Evgeni’s wide, dark eyes and full lips, but he remains a fulfilling sight, fanning the burgeoning flames of Sidney's desire.

“You’re want anything else?” Evgeni asks, voice husky and rich with promise, and Sidney hums.

“Yes-- there still is an unresolved matter in regards to my manhood,” Sidney says, tapping his fingers on his thigh to disguise the shivering shake running through them. “I believe that you owe my balls an apology, for doubting their existence and virility. I expect you can imagine a way to make amends?”

Evgeni doesn’t speak, but his answer is clear as he steps closer and kneels upon the floor before Sidney's spread legs. Sidney's tunic and toga are wider than most but still it is difficult to hitch them up, and Evgeni gives a frustrated growl before kneeling and inelegantly sticking his head beneath them and speedily untying Sidney's loincloth. The bulge that Evgeni’s head forms under the fabric is obscene, as obscene as the act he has offered so willingly. At the first wet kiss that Evgeni places to Sidney's balls, Sidney feels his release loom suddenly, stiffening in shock as he gasps. Evgeni lavishes attention to Sidney's sack as Sidney regains his composure, kissing and licking and sucking only at the gentle skin there, not so much as a breath landing on Sidney's cock. It’s sweet torture disguised as an apology that has Sidney twisting in ecstasy before he can even admit to the pleasure.

Evgeni grabs at Sidney's knee and lifts, hitching it over his own shoulder and dragging Sidney further down the chair. Sidney squeals and grabs at the arms to prevent himself from slipping off and finds he cannot let go, paralyzed by pleasure as Evgeni once again sucks one nut and then both into his mouth. Evgeni’s hand rests high against the inside of Sidney's thigh, and the press of his fingertips seem to connect directly to Sidney's dick as it twitches in unison with every tiny caress.

A cold shock hits Sidney as Evgeni lets slip Sidney's balls from his mouth. Sidney is preparing to complain when a second shock sways through him, born of a wet kiss placed directly on his asshole. “Evgeni!” The answer is a long, slow lick over the quivering flesh, and Sidney kicks frantically at Evgeni’s back. “Stop, no, Evgeni--” Sidney babbles, too far beyond words but entirely sure that he does not want to orgasm just yet, and thankfully Evgeni pulls back. Sidney hooks his foot under Evgeni’s arm and around his ribcage to draw him entirely away from Sidney, and Evgeni pushes at Sidney's tunic until he can emerge, panting and red-faced with mussed hair and shining lips and chin. “That’s-- that’s enough,” Sidney says, though ‘enough’ didn’t fully arrive until he saw the state that Evgeni is in. “Your apology has been accepted.”

Evgeni rises gracefully, leaning forward and breathing in Sidney's ear, “Thank you.” The smell of sex clouds around him, and Sidney involuntarily closes his eyes and breathes deep. He again needs a moment to compose himself so that he does not soil his tunic, and when he opens his eyes, Evgeni stands quietly before him. Now Evgeni’s dick is hard and red, standing straight up and beginning to shine with the fluids of his vitality.

It occurs to Sidney that Evgeni is waiting for his word on what to do next. It’s a staggering thought, and Sidney is buried under a mudslide of possibility for a scant few seconds. He cannot help but to think that he has not yet drunk his fill of looking at Evgeni, of examining every inch of him to find the private whispers that will tell Sidney the story he wishes to hear, and it gives Sidney an idea.

“Lie upon the bed,” Sidney says, mouth drying of words as Evgeni immediately turns, providing him with an excellent view. “Pleasure yourself as you prefer to. I wish to know the shape of your satisfaction so that I may learn it.” It has the benefit of being true, but also it gives Sidney the opportunity he longs for, to look without fear. Evgeni kneels upon the bed briefly to arrange the pillows at the headboard before turning over and lounging across them, legs spread and hand already sliding towards his cock.

Sidney's position in the chair is nothing but a hindrance now, his ribs compressing oddly as he strains to sit up and look as Evgeni wraps his fingers around his dick. Frustrated, Sidney stands, loincloth slipping to the ground as he sheds his toga and wrestles himself out of his tunic. Evgeni ignores Sidney, head tipping back and mouth dropping open as he begins a smooth rhythm. Sidney scrambles onto the foot of the mattress when he is free of his clothing, eagerly exploring every inch of Evgeni with his eyes.

Here in this bed is the only kingdom that Sidney has longed for and dreamed of conquering. He drowns under the flutter of Evgeni’s eyelashes over his cheek, the careful, tender shape of Evgeni’s hand over his cock, the way Evgeni twitches as Sidney reaches out to grasp his ankle-- a careful caress that nonetheless ripples through Evgeni’s muscles. Time slows and blurs, the world rolling to a halt as Sidney watches Evgeni open up under his attentions. Soon, far too soon, Evgeni is arching up and crying out as he spills across his stomach, collapsing back into the bed as his hand slides along his cock to milk the last of his semen.

It is too great of a temptation; Sidney leans forward, drawing a finger through the blood-warm ejaculate and licking it clean. It tastes of sex and Evgeni, and Sidney's blood races, cock bouncing urgently. His own passion, so easily pushed aside with the feast of Evgeni before him, returns with a vengeance.

“Evgeni,” Sidney says, receiving nothing but a halfhearted grunt in reply, Evgeni already sleepy with his release. “ _Evgeni_ ,” Sidney repeats, and Evgeni opens his eyes to slits. “I’m going to--” Sidney says before pausing, and Evgeni mumbles, “Anything.” It’s all Sidney needed, and he carefully flattens his palm against Evgeni’s release before elbowing Evgeni over onto his stomach. Evgeni’s legs sprawl, allowing Sidney to drag his wet hand along the insides of Evgeni’s thighs, and it’s the work of moments to tuck Evgeni’s legs together.

Sidney mounts Evgeni, bracketing his own legs around Evgeni’s to keep them tight and pushing his cock into the slick warmth waiting for him. He groans, driving his hips down, fucking gleefully into the cradle of Evgeni’s skin and grinning fiercely into the width of Evgeni’s back. Sidney's release comes as he can feel the muscles in Evgeni’s legs flex, pushing together to pull from Sidney his release. Sidney collapses, panting, on top of Evgeni before remembering his courtesies and rolling to the side.

They lie quietly for some time, until Evgeni stirs to stand from the bed. “Wait,” Sidney says, and Evgeni pauses. Once the word departs his lips, Sidney realizes he has no inkling why he spoke, and he quickly invents, “We must discuss-- the man who comes to your room and asks for your betrayal.”

“Yes?” Evgeni says. It is difficult for Sidney to not eye his nakedness but he resists the urge, looking firmly into Evgeni’s neck. The shape of it is sweet and vulnerable, even through the harsh maroon slash of the collar scar--

“We need a plan, to understand his motives, to bring him also to justice should it be required.”

Evgeni half-turns to catch Sidney's eye, a light frown curving his lips. “It’s simple, I’m tell him he’s talk to both of us. Bring him to you different night for meeting, so you’re know to expect. We talk, he’s tell us why he’s give me knife, we’re call guards and arrest him if he’s traitor.”

“Simple,” Sidney echoes doubtfully, and Evgeni shrugs.

“That’s all?” Evgeni asks, and Sidney concedes, “Yes,” even though an emptiness echoes in him as Evgeni dresses himself. “Or-- no,” Sidney says, just as Evgeni reaches for the door, and he turns to listen to Sidney. “Thank you for discovering the bastard that wished to overthrow me,” Sidney says, and Evgeni’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry for not believing you entirely at first.”

“You’re welcome,” Evgeni says, shock still writ large across his face. “And it’s forgiven.”

The quiet of night stretches between them, and Sidney breaks it by murmuring, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Evgeni returns, and Sidney closes his eyes as he hears the snap of the door.

*     *     *

Not two days later, Evgeni is grim-faced as he joins Sidney to break his fast during the Ceremony of the Sun. “What is it?” Sidney asks urgently, but Evgeni remains tight-lipped, shaking his head and glancing sharply at the attendants. They pale, hurrying through dressing Sidney, and Ducissa Luongo practically catapults Sidney's diadem at him in her haste to leave the room.

“Man come again,” Evgeni finally says. “I’m tell him, meet me later, we talk to emperor. He’s not like, but I say, it’s only way I’m talk. Tonight he’s come again, but guards must be gone, man says he’s can’t be seen.”

“If that is his condition, so we must meet it,” Sidney says. “We will discuss this with the guard, but also make it clear to the man that he cannot carry any weapon with him for this meeting.”

Sidney paces about his receiving room that night, restless as he waits for Evgeni. Exhaustion numbs his bones, but to be helpless in his bed when Evgeni and his mysterious guest arrive is too terrifying of a thought. He reads and paces and worries as the minutes drip by slowly.

Finally, long past midnight, the door opens and Sidney whirls to face it. Evgeni leads in a man older than he, wearing a tunic and an odd cloth tied around his neck, hairline and stubbled jaw touched with grey and eyes darting suspiciously about.

“Evgeni,” Sidney says, relieved, and his Humility nods shortly, shuttling the door with a neat click. The stranger’s eyebrows rise, and he looks Sidney up and down impudently. Sidney flushes and the man barks a laugh.

“History keeps repeating itself, yes?” he says, speaking with a thick barbarian accent, before striding past Evgeni to take a couch. “Come on, sit down, I want to talk.” Sidney reluctantly settles on a couch, Evgeni following suit.

“Who are you?” Sidney asks, unable to hold back the question any longer.

“You haven’t figured it out?” the stranger says incredulously. Sidney shakes his head, lips pursed, and he sighs. “No wonder,” he mutters, and then he tugs at the scarf. Below it are dark maroon scars, mottled, forming a perfect ring around the base of his neck.

“You’re slave?” Geno says, and the man sharply corrects, “I was the Humility.”

Sidney gasps involuntarily and says, “Imperator Lemieux’s first Humility? You were put to death for your indiscretions!”

“Jaromir is my name,” he says. “I was put to death for _Mario’s_ indiscretions-- who would respect an emperor who fucked a common slave? Luckily for me, he couldn’t bear to punish me for his own mistake. They found a criminal who looked enough like me, and Mario sent me away and said I could never return to court.”

“And yet here you are,” Sidney says. “Why do you return? Why do you incite Evgeni against me? Imperator Lemieux is long gone into retirement, never to be seen again. There is nothing here for you except death.”

“Is there? You must not know much about an emperor’s retirement, then.”

“So tell us,” Evgeni rumbles, and Jaromir flicks a hand at him.

“Patience, emperor-fucker,” Jaromir says, and Evgeni snarls, standing abruptly.

“Evgeni!” shouts Sidney, and Evgeni pauses. “Peace. He is rude, but you gain nothing by teaching him his place.” He must admit, though-- the temptation of permitting Evgeni his rage is great.

“Gain satisfaction,” Evgeni says, but nonetheless, he sits.

“That’s a good slave,” coos Jaromir. “You listen to your little emperor, or else he’ll send you away in the nights, hmm? He says you’re free, but you don’t look so free to me.”

“Please focus,” Sidney says wearily before Evgeni can explode with the rage so clearly building in him. “Explain to me what I do not know about Imperator Lemieux’s retirement.”

Jaromir tips his head consideringly at Sidney before answering. “When an emperor leaves the court, he goes to the Garden of the Gods to live the rest of his life in luxury, yes?” Sidney nods shortly. “And nobody knows where that is, yes? Those sent with him stay with him, messengers that arrive later never leave. Anybody who knows where the emperor is will die in that place.”

“I fail to see how my death would change this situation any,” Sidney says.  “Imperator Lemieux would not be bothered with news of my succession. Should you desire knowledge of his location, still you would not have it.”

“But how do old emperors know where to go?” Jaromir says, raising a finger. “It’s the same place for every emperor. Are they pigeons, homing in on a location by instinct? No. No _body_ knows the location, but it is still knowledge kept here. The Greater Mercies each keep a piece of the path, and when a new emperor wins the arena, they tell the old all that they know, until he has the full knowledge. When I returned to the city, I sought out Sanctus Zetterberg, for I knew he was a man of high aspirations from his appointment as Iras’ mercy. We struck a deal; I would use my knowledge of being the Humility to turn yours against you, and Sanctus Zetterberg would instate the emperor he desired. My reward would be the information I seek-- only an emperor can request it, so his puppet would ask for it and relay it to me.”

“What you’re do when you find him?” Evgeni asks.

Jaromir shrugs. “Maybe I kill him, maybe I don’t,” he says. “I never can seem to decide. He deserves death, but at the same time, I feel a little bad not making him take my dick again.” He grins, brazen and a little bit mad, and Sidney presses his eyes closed, dizzy with the sight of his own future, what Evgeni could become.

“So now you’re want new deal,” Evgeni says. “What you’re offer Sidney in return for knowledge? You’re have nothing of value now, Sanctus Zetterberg caught.”

“I know who Zetterberg trusted, who he planned with, who his strongest supporters are. I will tell you everything I know in return for Mario’s location.”

“Cut off head of snake, body still die,” Evgeni says dismissively. “He’s tell all to Arbiter-Investigator anyway. Need something better than that.”

Jaromir opens his mouth, clearly preparing to wheedle, but Sidney interrupts him. “There’s no information you have so valuable as that which you desire. But in good faith to the information you’ve given us now, I am willing to compromise. I will have a messenger sent to Imperator Lemieux with a letter from you, under the agreement that you will remain under watch as the slave departs, so that you cannot follow it.”

“No,” Jaromir shouts, the hint of madness now boiling bright in his eyes, and he stands to fling himself at Sidney. Evgeni shouts as Sidney rolls off the couch onto the floor and there’s a mighty thud as Evgeni throws himself across Jaromir. They wrestle indelicately, tearing at each other’s clothes, snarling as they trade blows, but Evgeni’s height and youth eventually win out and he pins Jaromir face-down to the floor.

Jaromir thrashes as Sidney leans over the couch to see him, shouting and spraying spittle, eyes showing white all around. “This is how you treat me, when I’m your greatest ally, the only one who understands being Humility? You side with him, even after he enslaved you, even after he sent you away and brought you back? You could be free, truly free, and yet you allow yourself to be chained to him, panting like a puppy after his ass! Do you think he loves you? You are a distraction, a toy, easily accessible and just as easily thrown away! You’re nothing more than a quick fuck, a stupid pet!”

Evgeni utters a terrible sound of rage, shifting his weight on Jaromir, and Jaromir takes advantage of the movement. Quicker than thought, he springs up and through the door, Evgeni too slow to pick himself up from the floor to make a proper chase. “Shit,” Evgeni spits, chest heaving, eyes blazing with fury. He flexes his scarred arm, clenching his fist and forcing the joint straight with a terrifying click, and Sidney suppresses the urge to rush to Evgeni’s side and ensure he has not sustained further injury to his elbow.

“To survive thus far, he is a beast far more wily than the tame lords of the Hundred Houses,” Sidney says, though he too rages at the injustice of Jaromir escaping. There is no doubt in Sidney's mind that the man will succeed in his flight, propelled by his insanity, and he spares a thought to the message he must send to Lemieux.

“He’s bastard,” Evgeni says. “Rat _bastard_ son of a plague.” The words tremble as they pass his lips, shaking with rage and something else, and Sidney must soothe whatever grips Evgeni so and throws him from his balance.

“I cannot say that I disagree. But rest assured, he is not so foolish as to show his face here again. We must make all the guards aware of his appearance, how he hides his neck, and trust that a message to Lemieux will provide any necessary protection.”

Evgeni blows out a long, heavy breath before collapsing onto a couch. Suddenly, his limbs drag wearily, his face drooping, and Sidney says gently, “It has been a long day, Evgeni. Take your rest; it is the least that is due to you for your actions.” Evgeni nods, shortly, and offers a brief, “Good night,” before exiting. Surprisingly, he doesn’t slam the door, instead choosing to gently draw it closed, and Sidney doesn’t examine his desire for the opposite.

*     *     *

Sidney calls his council with a heavy heart the next day, already dreading their reactions to what he must say. “What news, Your Imperial Majesty?” Cautio Ference asks eagerly as the last members of the council settle in their places.

“None to please the council or the court,” Sidney says. Nearly every member of the council leans forward at that, enraptured, and Sidney says, “Last night, we were visited by Jaromir Jagr, Imperator Lemieux’s first Humility.”

Chaos erupts; Clemens Knight, Cautio Dupuis, and Cautio Thornton all stand, shouting, and immediately begin to argue with each other. Cautio Foglino punches the air, snarling, and other lords follow suit, with the most mild reactions from Clemens Price-- an unpleasant sneer on his face-- and Cautio Maatta-- polite confusion.

“He is dead!” roars Cautio Orpik, slamming his fist down upon a table and earning some level of silence with his outburst. “This is impossible, Your Imperial Majesty, I cannot accept it. The Humility was put to death, as well he should have been for crossing the will of the gods. You have spoken with an imposter at best.”

“Cautio Orpik, what I hear is an accusation of incompetence towards Imperator Crosby,” Clemens Knight says, stepping forward in a swirl of toga. “Do you wish to make that claim here before the council? Or will you respect your emperor?”

Cautio Orpik’s jaw works, but he concedes, “I do not wish to tender such an accusation, Clemens. But I find it beyond belief that the Imperator Lemieux’s first Humility has been alive and plotting against the Empire for so long without any rumors or repercussions.”

“And yet it is fact regardless of your belief, Cautio Orpik,” Sidney says frostily.

“He’s smart, that’s why he’s still hidden,” Evgeni says. “That’s why he ask we’re meet him at night, in part of palace he know, with guards sent away. And that’s how he get away.”

“He escaped?” Cautio Bergeron bleats, and Evgeni stares at him before obviously turning to scan the entire room.

“I’m not see him, do you?” he asks. Cautio Bergeron begins to turn an alarming shade of purple, and Sidney hurriedly says, “Humilis Malkin, Cautio Bergeron, peace. I have called the council to decide how to proceed with this information, not to argue over past events.”

“We must search for him,” Clemens Price says flatly, and every head in the room nods. “There is no alternative, Your Imperial Majesty. He has escaped the justice of the Empire for this long, for whatever reason that Imperator Lemieux spared him, but no longer. His past and present treason weighs heavily upon us, and the gods will see us clear that debt.”

Sidney's heart jumps, the beat resounding through his body. He wants to protest, insist on a different solution, but Clemens Price is right. Jagr must pay the penance for his crimes, including his relations with Imperator Lemieux. “So be it,” Sidney says. “See to it that the city regiment begins searching, but ensure that they are quiet.”

“There is no point in searching in the city,” dismisses Cautio Kesler. “No doubt he has fled in the night. Begin in the closest districts, instead.”

“No, His Imperial Majesty is right,” Evgeni says. “Jagr wants information too badly to leave. He’s still here, send out the city guard and he’s caught.”

Clemens Knight stands, turning towards Sidney. “I shall go immediately, Your Imperial Majesty. We cannot spare any time in the search. Was he disguising himself in any way that we must inform the regiment?”

“A cloth tied around his neck, to hide the scars left by his collar,” Sidney says. “And his hair is long, near shoulder length, but he is clean-shaven on his face.”

“These things can be changed in an instant-- I shall ensure every party has at least one member well-knowing of Jagr’s countenance,” Clemens Knight says, bowing and departing. The session dissolves, lords and priests gathering in groups to discuss in hushed tones. Sidney leaves them to it; there is no benefit in staying now that his message is relayed.

There is no good news by the end of the day, and Sidney is more surprised and relieved than he should be. His time of contemplation is startlingly quiet, Evgeni amusing himself with a tiny wood carving while Sidney chases his own unhappy thoughts.

The uneasiness in his soul persists as day after day there is no report of Jagr’s capture, and three nights after their meeting with Jagr, Sidney is agitated enough to contemplate returning to Sanctus Fleury to soothe his disquiet. Tonight, Sidney is ostensibly reading from his book of poetry, but it has lain open to the same stanza for half an hour now, where Sidney carelessly unrolled it to upon sitting while he ruminates on other topics.

“Read it to me,” Evgeni says abruptly, and Sidney starts out of his reverie. “What?” he asks stupidly, and Evgeni repeats, “Read it to me, whatever you’re read.”

“It’s merely poetry,” Sidney says dubiously, but Evgeni waves his hand haughtily, so Sidney bends his head and thoughtlessly speaks the words before him. “I hate and love, and if you should ask how I can do both / I couldn’t say; but I feel it, and it shivers me*.”

Sidney dares not to look up, breath shallow under the crushing weight of Evgeni’s gaze. He swallows dryly, rolling the volume closed carefully and setting it aside. The invective he expects from Evgeni never arrives; instead, a gentle hand grips Sidney's chin, tipping his head up. Evgeni’s face is soft as he leans in, and Sidney cannot tolerate it.

“Stop, I cannot,” Sidney says desperately. “It is not-- proper.”

“Proper not stop you before,” Evgeni says, leaning back and releasing Sidney, eyebrows drawn unhappily. “What’s make you say this now?”

“I have recently reconsidered our arrangement, and I do not think it should continue.”

Evgeni narrows his eyes at Sidney. “This because of Jaromir?” Sidney sighs, defeated; how does Evgeni always find Sidney's heart so quickly? “Don’t be stupid, Sid,” Evgeni says roughly. “That’s not-- that’s not same as us. You free me, you’re not make me stay slave. It’s not problem, to be together. Court won’t be mad, gods won’t be mad.” Evgeni hesitates before saying, “But if you’re mad, if you’re not want, I’m stop.”

“Of course I want you,” Sidney chokes out. “In every way that you will have me. But, seeing Jaromir-- seeing the madness that Imperator Lemieux drove him to-- I cannot accept that future for you.”

“Ever think, ‘It’s not my place to decide Evgeni’s future?’” Evgeni asks. “How about you’re let me decide what I’m do? If I’m stuck in court forever, why can’t I have only nice thing I want to? You’re make both of us to suffer why, because you think it’s better than being happy?”

“Doing the right thing is more important than being happy,” Sidney says, head bent as he draws his fingers against the texture of the scroll. “I will not act against my own better judgement for simple earthly pleasures.”

“Your better judgement is stupid,” Evgeni says, taking Sidney's book from his hand and laying it gently on the floor before shoving Sidney's legs over to make room on the couch for Evgeni to sit. “How many times I’m tell you, we’re not same as Imperator Lemieux and Jagr. You’re never touch me while I’m slave, and you free me, make Humility different so I can be citizen. That’s your better judgement, Sid, not-- whatever you’re try to do now.”

Evgeni’s words, however surprisingly kind they are, do not erase the guilt that burns in Sidney’s heart. “Still, it does not change my indiscretions while you were a slave. I cannot proceed in good conscience, even though you are a citizen proper and I have no guilt from any current or future actions.”

“Indiscretions?” Evgeni asks, outraged. “Tell me about indiscretions, because I’m not remember any!” He waits, but Sidney cannot speak, and so Evgeni finishes triumphantly, “You cannot tell because they all happen in your head. They’re not _real_ , Sid. But today is real, what we’re do since I’m come back as citizen is real. If you’re not want _that_ , then you say and it’s over. But if you want it, it’s yours.” Sidney nods, and Evgeni holds up a finger. “But! One condition. You must promise, no more of this. Stop being stupid over when I’m slave. That’s over now, and today we’re something else. If you’re always worry over this, if I’m must listen to this forever, I’m swear on gods I’m kill you, Sid, I’m let next assassin get you.”

Sidney glances up to catch Evgeni’s over-exaggerated grimace as he says _I’ll kill you_ , throttling an imaginary neck in the air. Sidney laughs weakly, and says, “If you promise patience, then I agree--”

The door slams open and a messenger shouts, “Your Imperial Majesty!” Her chest is heaving, clearly having run from somewhere, and she bows as she says, “They have caught the final traitor, Your Imperial Majesty, and Clemens Knight demands your presence immediately to verify that they have the correct man.”

Sidney and Evgeni trade a glance before they’re off and running. Rest comes hours later, after they have identified Jagr, after the entire council is roused to decide Jagr’s fate and the fate of the rest of the traitors. When Sidney finally is released to his bed, he finds an unusual peace among his pillows, his heart beating a simple, easy rhythm that leads Sidney to dreams instead of nightmares.

*     *     *

Sidney wakes late, eating a hasty lunch before hurrying to the Emperor’s Arena to witness the final punishment of the traitors. Despite the late notice, the assembled crowd of citizens is riotous, thirst for blood thrumming through the air. Zetterberg, Saad, and Jagr are bound and gagged in the center of the arena-- the last hooded, so that no citizen may have the opportunity to recognize him-- surrounded by Iras’ tributes and other lords, all men named as conspirators with Zetterberg.

Cautio Dupuis sounds the Imperial Bell, and the crowd falls silent, faces turning en masse to the Imperial Box. Sidney strides forward, squinting as the sun hits his eyes, an unforgiving brightness as Solus revels in the dispensation of justice.

“Citizens, you are gathered here today to witness the execution and punishment of traitors to the Empire,” Sidney shouts into the arena, and a great cheer swells up. He raises his hand, and the sound subsides. “Before you stands those who work against the Empire’s victory. In this arena, I was christened with the glory of the Empire, and now I shall christen the land with the blood of those who work against us. They would bring ruin to our victory for their own gain, and so they pay the price as demanded by the gods.”

Sidney gestures to the Arbiter-Executioners, and they step neatly up to the center of the arena. “Three men will face the traitor’s death. Each balance of the land will exact its justice; the Emperor, the Empire, and the Citizen shall all see their satisfaction. The others have been turned by the sweet lies of the lord and priest above them, and shall see the Emperor and Empire’s justice, and be marked forever more as traitors, their houses having five generations of disgrace to atone for their sins.”

The roar of the crowd is nearly deafening as the executioners pick up their whips. As Sidney retreats back into the box, he can see the screams of the traitors, though the sound is indiscernible from the revelry. The Emperor’s Justice is a whipping thorough enough to remove the skin from the back of the traitor, and the lengthy process is accompanied by the enjoyment of the crowd.

Sidney feels his fingers creak as he grips the arms of his throne, and he jolts in surprise as a hand lands heavily upon his left shoulder. He looks up at Evgeni standing at his side, and Evgeni glances down before returning his gaze to the proceedings. “It’s what they deserve, and they know this how they’re punish traitors,” Evgeni says, staring out at the arena.

“Suffering may be right, but it is not easy,” Sidney says, and Evgeni squeezes his shoulder. Thankfully, the whipping ends, the three sprawled forward on the ground from the force of the blows and the strength of their pain, and the Empire’s Justice begins. The executioners each pick up one of the massive amphorae arrayed around the prisoners and begins to pour their contents-- harshest vinegar and salt-- onto the wounds of the traitors. As slowly as the executioners try to pour, no jug is bottomless, and the second punishment finds an end.

The arbitri turn away, enacting the same two steps upon each of the lesser conspirators, followed by a brand burned squarely upon their left cheek to display their dishonor for the rest of their lives. Sidney slowly relaxes as he grows numb to the pain carried out below, though his stomach roils as Dux Hall offers him a plate of food and Sidney declines as politely as he can. Eventually, all the conspirators have received their justice and the executioners return to the three in the center, drawing swords. They are beheaded with little ceremony and the heads are paraded around the arena and before the conspirators are forced to kiss each one, their final act of shame. Zetterberg’s body is relieved of its tunic, which is passed off to a slave that sprints across the arena.

The slave bursts into the box, rounding Sidney's throne to kneel and offer the bundle of fabric. Sidney takes it and stands, trying not to not breathe too deeply; the stench of suffering from the tunic makes his head spin, and he resists the urge to close his eyes to steady the world. Steadiness comes instead as a gentle pressure alights on his back, the push of Evgeni’s hand against his spine the surest anchor. Still, he wonders-- how long before he holds up Evgeni’s tunic? How many days until a traitor’s death for either of them?

He holds the cloth aloft, letting it flutter in the wind and show the stain of blood upon it. The crowd roars their approval, a single mighty voice echoing with satisfaction, the voice of the gods from the throats of men.

Upon his release from the box, Sidney immediately flees to the gardens of the palace, sending Evgeni away with a pleading look and a request to summon Clemens Subban. He grips his goblet close as he waits for the priest, staring at the surface of the wine until it does not ripple from the shake of his hands. Clemens Subban arrives, an unusual hesitance in his step as he joins Sidney at the small table. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he greets. “I am surprised to see you returned so soon from the revelry of the day. It has been a great victory for you and for the Empire.”

“And yet I am filled with unease, Clemens Subban,” Sidney says, placing the goblet onto the table and folding his hands demurely in his lap. “So I have summoned the one most able to guide me towards peace, in the hopes that you will take pity on me.”

“I live to serve, Your Imperial Majesty,” Subban says quickly. “But I suggest that you may find the peace you are looking for in the hearts of your loved ones, rather than bestowed upon you by an advisor. It is not your home is disarray, but your heart, Your Imperial Majesty, and matters of the heart are more of Clemens Fleury’s ken than mine.”

“And yet I just witnessed the execution of three traitors and the justice of many more,” Sidney says, swallowing the bile that rises at the memory. “How is this not my house in disarray? I am filled with a great worry, Clemens, that my actions were not correct, and that I bring the curses of the gods and the people upon me.”

Clemens Subban shakes his head immediately at Sidney’s words, making a displeased sound. “Do not think for a second that their fates were not sealed by their own actions, Your Imperial Majesty. Their foolishness is through no action of yours, and no blame can be laid at your feet. The gods are pleased with the retribution you have carried out on their behalf. Why the sudden doubt, Your Imperial Majesty? Many emperors have dealt with traitors amongst their courts just as you have, and are remembered fondly for their protection of the Empire and her interests.”

Sidney sighs; the priest speaks rightly, and yet it still does not sit well with him. “I find it difficult to take pleasure in suffering, even though it is earned. Perhaps I am too gentle a creature to be emperor. How will I lead my court, should I be struck with guilt at every turn for the punishments that the foolish earn?”

“Valor can be confronting the truth of others’ lives, Your Imperial Majesty, including accepting their suffering as your own. Do not quiet this voice in you, but take its counsel wisely, and you will earn eternal loyalty amongst the court and bring greatness to the Empire.” Clemens Subban pauses, looking down for a long moment before continuing. “Your Imperial Majesty, I shall speak perhaps more plainly than I should. It has not been long since you have been blessed as our emperor, and I had no small number of worries over your reign from the outset. But as you have arranged the court to your liking and followed the gods’ will in regards to the Humility, you have found the confidence that you need to rule. Now I hear you allowing doubt to consume you; down that path lies ruin, Your Imperial Majesty. Trust in those around you to direct you and challenge you, and proceed in your own convictions until convinced otherwise.”

“Thank you, Clemens,” Sidney says through his dry throat. “You have given me much to consider.”

“I hope that you do not consider me impertinent,” Subban says with a crooked smile, and Sidney laughs with him. “In all truth, Your Imperial Majesty, I know there is someone else that you should be discussing this with. I can render no further aid today; I ask that you go and find your peace where it rests, for it will not be elsewhere, no matter how hard you look for it.”

Sidney is not oblivious to who exactly Clemens Subban is referring to; even so, Sidney avoids his chambers for the afternoon, sitting with his thoughts in the garden until he must attend the night’s banquet in honor of the executions.

*     *     *

The event is small for a Justice Banquet but rowdy, filled with the excitement of the court at the reveal and removal of the traitors. The council attends, each Cautio with three favored members of his cohort and each Clemens with two clerici. Sidney orbits from one conversation to the next, careful to not show favor and equally careful to never end up in the same conversation as Evgeni.

As they move to the table for dinner, though, Sidney's plan fails; Evgeni is led to recline to his left as has become his habit since his return. Sidney manages to interject himself into Clemens Knight and Clericus Chu’s vigorous discussion over chariots to his right, but even that distraction peters out.

Evgeni nudges Sidney as Clemens Knight turns to needle Clemens Price, and Sidney half-turns and says shortly, “What?”

“I’m sorry if I’m do anything,” Evgeni says to his plate. “I don’t know what, but you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Sidney says, choking on the words. “Don’t be sorry, your actions have been nothing but acceptable.”

The glance that Evgeni slips him thrills through his body. “Then… I’m come to room after dinner?” Evgeni asks hopefully, and Sidney swallows and nods.

True to his word, Evgeni trails after Sidney at the conclusion of the meal, all the way back to his receiving room. Sidney takes a deep breath after closing the door and says abruptly, “I am sorry for sending you away this afternoon. I-- I was scared about what Jagr became and the possibility that you also could fall into madness because of me. But you are right that it is not for me to decide whether or not that is your future. I trust you, and if you say that such a thing will not occur, then I will believe you.”

Sidney intends to continue-- he had more prepared about humbleness and valor that was, in his opinion, quite eloquent-- but Evgeni stops him, gripping Sidney by the shoulders and looking down into his face with an expression of awe. “Thank you,” Evgeni rumbles, and he leans down and kisses Sidney desperately.

For all their explorations over the past few weeks, Sidney is surprised to realize that this is their first true kiss, and he is consumed by it. Evgeni slides his arms around Sidney's shoulder, cradling Sidney close as he licks as Sidney's lower lip. Sidney opens to him, the thrill of shame from submitting only fueling his burgeoning arousal. Evgeni’s hands are soft on Sidney's face as he tilts it to his desire, stealing Sidney's breath and heart with his tenderness even as he claims Sidney's mouth as his own. Somehow, they stagger towards the wall, Evgeni landing roughly against it and slouching, pulling Sidney tight against him as the kiss breaks and begins again.

When Evgeni allows him to draw back, Sidney is panting, straddling Evgeni’s leg and pressing urgently against its firmness. His hands twist in Evgeni’s toga, so tightly that they are nearly numb, and the sensation is the only thing that anchors Sidney to the present. Evgeni’s lips shine obscenely as he looks down at Sidney, his own breath heaving in time with Sidney's, and all Sidney can think of is their last night together, the same shine on Evgeni’s face when he emerged from under Sidney's tunic. The thought runs through Sidney like lightning, and his hips move of their own accord against Evgeni as he gasps, “To the bedroom, _please_ , Evgeni.”

Evgeni grins at Sidney and says, “You find your desire, yes?” He twists back against the twitches of Sidney's hips and Sidney groans. Evgeni kisses him once more upon the lips, slick but close-mouthed and full of passion nonetheless, before pushing Sidney back. They practically sprint for the bedroom door, Sidney making it through first and immediately reaching for his toga. “Wait,” Evgeni says from behind Sidney, his hand landing heavily on Sidney's where it sits upon his own shoulder. Sidney frowns and turns, maneuvering so that Evgeni’s hand stays atop his, and Evgeni squeezes it gently before dropping it. “Let me do it,” he says before Sidney can ask the question.

“If you so desire,” Sidney says doubtfully. It strikes Sidney as an overly servile request, especially given the leeway Sidney has just provided Evgeni in treating Sidney as his beneficiary.

“I do,” Evgeni says, deep and rich, and he licks his lips as he wraps his fingers in the end of Sidney's toga and gently guides it around Sidney's body. The movement becomes more than half embrace, Evgeni exhaling shakily in Sidney's ear as he passes the toga end from one hand to the other behind Sidney's back. He gathers the rest of the material on Sidney's shoulder in his palm, pushing it to the floor, and Sidney's skin erupts in gooseflesh from the sudden chill combined with Evgeni’s hands landing on his belt. With Evgeni’s head bowed as he undoes the buckle, Sidney could easily lean forward and press a kiss to the top of his head, and the thought is as simple as the deed. After dropping Sidney's belt, Evgeni returns the gesture by pressing a tiny kiss to the tip of Sidney’s nose before kneeling to grip the hem of Sidney's tunic. Sidney obligingly raises his arms as Evgeni peels his tunic from him, and he kicks off his sandals as Evgeni busies himself with the knots of Sidney's loincloth.

Sidney stands bare before Evgeni. His stomach thrills as Evgeni trails his eyes up and down Sidney's body; surely, Sidney thinks doubtfully, surely by now Evgeni has taken in his fill of Sidney's appearance, but Evgeni still drinks in the sight greedily, mouth agape and tongue again darting out to wet his lips hungrily. “Beautiful,” Evgeni breaths, stepping close to run his hands over Sidney's shoulders, down his arms, across his chest, along his hips. “Perfect,” he murmurs as his hands cup Sidney's ass, circling again and again over their roundness, fingers tightening to test their firmness before again moving, tucking into the crease between cheek and thigh, flirting with the depth of the crack.

“Enough!” Sidney says, voice jumping as Evgeni brushes against his hole. “Am I not permitted to lay you bare as well?” Evgeni sighs, squeezing at Sidney's ass before letting go and stepping back.

“Not enough, not yet,” Evgeni says, but he permits Sidney to grasp his toga and pull it off. Oddly, there’s a pouch on Evgeni’s belt, so Sidney deftly undoes the belt but doesn’t drop it, holding the pouch up to Evgeni. “What’s this?” he asks, and Evgeni smirks.

“Open it,” Evgeni says, and Sidney pulls at the tie eagerly. Inside is a vial of olive oil; when Sidney removes the cork, a gentle scent of cedar wafts up. “Not yet, Sid,” Evgeni scolds, guiding Sidney's hand to replacing the cork and then tossing it gently onto the mattress. “So impatient. We have all of time we need.”

“And you are a model of patience yourself, hmm?” Sidney teases, purposefully drawing the back of his hand along Evgeni’s cock as he pulls on Evgeni’s tunic. Evgeni twitches and gasps, mock-growling at Sidney as Sidney tugs the cloth over his head. Evgeni keeps his arms raised, and Sidney scowls at Evgeni as he hops, trying to reach far enough to guide the sleeves over Evgeni’s hands. Evgeni laughs, stretching up further, and Sidney snaps, “Stop that, would you?”

“Make me,” Evgeni challenges, and Sidney narrows his eyes. He tries to tug at the tunic to bring Evgeni’s arms down, but Evgeni fights it, and Sidney has no option but to escalate. He holds the tunic up with one hand as the other slips down Evgeni’s neck, brushing a nipple on the path down his chest and sliding neatly into his loincloth. Sidney rubs his thumb over the head of Evgeni’s cock and Evgeni shudders, letting his guard down for the barest second. It’s enough of an opportunity for Sidney, though, and he triumphantly drags Evgeni’s arms down and drops the tunic.

“You are nothing but trouble,” Sidney says, stepping closer as he fists Evgeni’s cock, keeping his hand still and just enjoying the heavy girth of it in his palm. “I’ve half a mind to send you to your room until you learn how to behave.”

“And you’re terrible liar,” Evgeni says, wrapping an arm around Sidney's shoulders. “You’ve love when I’m trouble.”

“I fear it has a certain charm,” Sidney admits reluctantly. “And I am sure that I will regret saying so.”

“Regret? I’m hope not,” Evgeni says, and the raw edge of honesty shocks Sidney into silence. Evgeni tips Sidney's chin up and kisses him back into breathing, nudging his hips at Sidney's unmoving hand.

“Perhaps it is not the right word,” Sidney says when they break. “You may drive me to distraction for the rest of my life, but I am not sure that I could have it any other way.”

“That’s better,” Evgeni says as Sidney tugs at his loincloth. As soon as he is as naked as Sidney, Evgeni steps them towards the bed, pushing Sidney down and bouncing upon the mattress himself. Evgeni reaches for the oil, and Sidney snatches it from him. “Hey!” protests Evgeni, and Sidney clutches the vial to his chest.

“So it is your decision only, who is to be the beneficiary?” Sidney says, drowning under a sudden wave of vulnerability. “I am given no say in the proceedings, and I must blindly obey and submit?”

“You trust me?” Evgeni asks, stilling, and Sidney swallows. “Yes,” Sidney whispers, and Evgeni nods. “So then you trust me. Here, it’s not about-- who’s take, who’s not, what gossip could be. It’s about you and me, _our_ pleasure.”

“Fine,” Sidney says, turning his face to the side. He will gain no pleasure from the proceedings and thus no longer suffer the indignity, he decides. Evgeni cups his cheek, peppering kisses on the other, and beginning a trail down Sidney's neck and chest. Evgeni carefully unwraps Sidney's fingers from the vial, setting it aside, and continues moving downward.

Sidney's calves still dangle off the bed, and when Evgeni kisses the points of Sidney's hipbones, he grasps Sidney's thighs and urges him up the mattress. Sidney shuffles ungainly backwards until he stretches his full length, and Evgeni kneels between his legs. “You tell me if you’re not like,” Evgeni says, looking up briefly, and Sidney nods. “But I’m think you like very much,” he adds. “You like last time I’m do, I’m think.”

With that baffling comment, Evgeni hitches Sidney's left knee over his shoulder, leaning forward and thumbing at the tender skin behind Sidney's balls, spreading the base of Sidney's ass. Sidney yelps, “Evgeni!” but Evgeni continues undeterred, flicking his tongue out and tasting at Sidney's quivering hole. Each lick sends a new spasm of pleasure through Sidney, the throb of his dick overwhelming from the lack of attention to it. And yet, as much as this should not be fulfilling, it _is_ , igniting a burning fire inside of Sidney that demands more. Thankfully, he does not need to ask for more-- there is no breath in his lungs to form words with-- as Evgeni seems to sense his desperation, lengthening his strokes, testing the tightness of the muscle with his tongue.

Sidney's cock slaps against his stomach at a particularly strong push, and then Evgeni sits up, scrubbing his chin clear of spit. “No, don’t--” Sidney begs through shallow breaths, but Evgeni places a gentle hand on Sidney's stomach and soothes, “Ssh, no, just little stop,” as he leans to grasp the vial before settling back down on his knees.

Sidney hears the cork pop free from the vial, and his breath comes speedily now from apprehension rather than arousal. He closes his fist, tightening until he can feel the brutal press of fingertips into palm, then opening again, trying to let out a long sigh to calm the tattoo of his heart. Evgeni’s tongue returns, and Sidney has barely relaxed into it when Evgeni’s finger slides along the same path, anointing him with oil. “Evgeni--” Sidney starts, but hardly knows how to finish, and Evgeni’s other hand trails along Sidney's thigh and back up to his stomach. Evgeni draws himself up, tucking closer to Sidney's body as he strokes Sidney's belly with one hand, slicked-up fingers of the other barely teasing at Sidney's hole. “It’s fine,” Evgeni says, thumb smoothing over the taut skin beside Sidney's hip. “I’m not let it be bad, yes?”

“Just do it,” Sidney grits out, but Evgeni only gives him a disappointed look and continues to pressure Sidney's hole without pushing past the resistance. Slowly, the lurch of Sidney's fear recedes, and instead a yearning grows, fluttering along Sidney's dick and through his ass. At the next push of Evgeni’s finger, Sidney opens to him, and Sidney gasps at the feeling. Evgeni stills, watching Sidney like a hawk watches its prey, and Sidney tightens down. It’s strange and good and not enough, and Sidney raises his hips only to try and drive them down upon Evgeni’s finger and discover more of this feeling.

“No, not so quick,” Evgeni says, pushing Sidney down by the hand on Sidney's stomach. “It’s how you hurt yourself, let me do it,” he scolds, and Sidney thrashes his head.

“Well, should you proceed at a more reasonable pace, then I will not have to go to such measures,” Sidney gripes. Evgeni pushes in quickly, too easily goaded, and Sidney moans. It must encourage Evgeni, for he starts a slow rhythm, working in and out steadily until again Sidney begins to impatiently rock his hips.

Any hesitance Sidney harbored about their arrangement has disappeared; all he wants, all he _needs_ , is everything that Evgeni will give him. Evgeni pulls all the way out, and the force this time is a little stronger, the stretch a little wider, presumably from the addition of a finger. Sidney fumbles for Evgeni’s hand, still on his stomach, and grips it tightly as he wills himself to open further. Evgeni hums at him, thoughtless little noises as he focuses on Sidney's hole, and Sidney rides out the new shock, until again it is not enough.

“One more,” Evgeni says, withdrawing his hand and popping the vial’s cork. The slick sound of oil follows, and Sidney is not sure he will survive another dinner without associating the sound to this moment, this intimacy. Evgeni pushes, the stretch greater, but this time, as Evgeni slides his fingers out, they brush-- pure pleasure, ecstasy distilled, and Sidney arches and shouts with the strength of the fire that rushes through him. “Sid!” Evgeni says, alarmed, but Sidney says, “Again, again, gods, Evgeni, please again,” and Evgeni seeks until he finds the spot.

Sidney had thought he was a master of his body, a connoisseur of the sensual delights, but never had he found or imagined such as this. He drowns, hands and feet starting to numb with overwhelming sensation, twisting on the gentle rub of Evgeni’s fingers until he nearly sobs. Evgeni withdraws, and Sidney wants to protest but no words come to his lips, and quickly enough they are covered by Evgeni’s, anyway. Evgeni kisses desperately against Sidney's mouth, still slack with overwhelming pleasure, before saying, “Gods, Sid, you love it, you’re look so amazing, so beautiful, totally undone because of me.”

“Not totally,” Sidney creaks, and Evgeni laughs. “I’m fix that soon,” he promises, and his hands guide Sidney to roll onto his stomach. At the first brush of Sidney's untouched cock against the bed, Sidney thinks _all is lost_ , but he holds on to his composure with the barest of threads.

Evgeni slides atop him, a near-perfect reversal of their last encounter. His cock is slick with oil, dropping to fit perfectly between Sidney's cheeks, and Evgeni takes a few indulgent strokes between the thickness of his ass. When he pulls back enough to graze the head of his cock against Sidney's hole, Sidney moans, groping a hand back to grip his hip and attempt to encourage him down. Evgeni kisses between Sidney's shoulder blades before sitting up and pressing his cock against the rim of Sidney's hole until he is overwhelmed and crying out and giving in.

Evgeni works his cock in slowly, whispering a thousand tiny words as he rubs soothing paths up and down Sidney's back. It’s difficult to do much else than lie there, overwhelmed by new sensations, but thankfully Evgeni does not seem to expect much else from Sidney. But as Evgeni seats himself fully and pauses, Sidney knows it’s not enough. He whines as he tries to remember words, and finally says, “Down, please, on top of me,” and hopes it’s enough.

The mattress sinks as Evgeni plants a hand next to Sidney's head and shifts forward. His cock sinks in deeper at the movement, and they both freeze. Sidney demands, “down, on _top_ of me,” again, and Evgeni leans down until his full weight is atop Sidney. Sidney is surrounded, overcome, and exactly where he wishes to be. Evgeni can only give him tiny hitching strokes from this position, but each one rubs perfectly on that spot inside of Sidney, building to his completion in a startlingly short time.

Sidney cries out as he releases, his seed spreading warm and wet beneath his body, and Evgeni pauses, groping until he can snatch Sidney's hand up and twine their fingers together. Sidney floats among the clouds of the gods, contentment writ upon every drop of blood, until Evgeni moves again.

Sidney knows that Evgeni must be desperate by now, but even the tiniest slide of his cock deep inside Sidney leaves Sidney hissing, overwhelmed. As Evgeni withdraws, though, the raw sparks stop, and Sidney says, “Stop, just--no further than there, you may go.” Evgeni pauses, clearly considering something, before pulling all the way out and grabbing Sidney's hips to pull them up. Evgeni lets go with but one hand to line up his cock, and then he fucks eagerly into Sidney, fingers digging into Sidney's hips. He goes no further than Sidney allowed him to, and Sidney pillows his head upon his arms and permits him his pleasure. Evgeni again lets go with one hand, but this time the curl of his fist around his dick bumps against Sidney's hole on each stroke. Evgeni drives in a final time, gasping, and pulls out to collapse without dignity next to Sidney. Sidney allows his knees to slide down so that he is flat on the mattress again, but he lets out a sound of disgust as he lies upon the wetness of his release. He rolls to the side, wriggling so that he can sling an arm and a leg over Evgeni and use that to balance himself in a drier spot.

Evgeni doesn’t move, face down on the bed, and Sidney takes it as tacit permission for his indiscretions. Or perhaps Evgeni has died from pleasure, Sidney considers, and tries not to puff his chest in pride. Thankfully, Evgeni does stir when Sidney is nearly asleep, chilled without a blanket but warmed enough by Evgeni’s body to doze off.

“I’m leave now?” Evgeni asks, turning his face to the side so that he does not say it directly into the bed, and Sidney feels his brow furrow with sleepy confusion.

“Leave where?” Sidney asks. Where would he go? Back to the barbarian lands?

“Go back to my room,” Evgeni says.

“Do-- do you wish to leave and return to your rooms?” Sidney says. He is growing more alert with worry, and words start to fill his head: _I do not wish to be here, I will not be your Humility, I will take my freedom and go_.

“No,” Evgeni says after a heavy pause. “I’m never want to leave.”

“So then you should not leave,” Sidney says. “I do not understand the issue.”

“I’m not have to leave? Or you’re not want me to leave, rather have me stay?” Evgeni presses. Sidney opens his eyes and cranes his neck to look into Evgeni’s eyes, but they are closed, eyebrows furrowed with unknowable worries.

It’s a great temptation to say, _I fail to see the difference_ , pretend his ignorance, but Sidney can hear the real question in the tremble of Evgeni’s voice. Sidney says, “I did not permit your punishment when you tried to kill me, I had you healed when you saved me. I freed you and yet I brought you back to me. Do you truly believe I wish for you to leave, after all this? That I would find my life richer without you in it?”

Evgeni opens his eyes, worrying at his lower lip as he stares into Sidney's eyes. “All these things, you’re do them maybe because it’s right thing, maybe because--” He can’t finish the sentence.

“Love is unknowable, and yet we know it so well,” Sidney whispers. He buries his head in Evgeni’s shoulder, for even an admission so weak as that is too large for Sidney, though it lives within him.

Evgeni finally says, “Yes, it’s true. I’m stay, then.” He shifts, tugging at Sidney, and they curl together and fall asleep.

*     *     *

Sidney wakes with a start in the night, disoriented: why is his back burning hot? Why is his chest so cold, except for a single sweaty loop about his waist? His muddled mind manages to recall the source of the heat just as Sidney shifts, awakening a twinge in his ass. Sidney hisses even as his cock stirs, and Evgeni grumbles in his ear, shifting along with him. Sidney turns in Evgeni’s embrace, kissing at Evgeni’s throat until Evgeni grunts, searching blindly for Sidney's mouth with his own. Sidney indulges him, and they trade sleepy kisses, caught in the haze between dreams and waking.

With Evgeni so pliant and sweet, it’s impossible for Sidney not to indulge himself in exploring Evgeni’s body with his hands. He returns again and again to the round, pert shape of Evgeni’s ass before working up the bravery to stoke against Evgeni’s hole pointedly.

“So tired,” complains Evgeni, oddly loud in the quiet of the room. “Next time, Sid, I’m sleep now.”

Sidney huffs, but he too can feel the call of slumber again and concedes the point. Instead, he slides until their hips are even, grasping both their cocks together. Evgeni grumbles, but in a vaguely positive way, and he firms quickly under Sidney's attention. Sidney tucks himself close to Evgeni, burying his nose against Evgeni’s collarbone as he revels in the sweet truth of this moment, the knowledge that Evgeni is here with him. This time, his release is a slow, honeyed wave, and Sidney can barely retain his wits long enough to bring Evgeni to his completion as well.

“Now another wet spot,” Evgeni says. “Why you’re do this to me?” Pouting is unattractive, Sidney reminds himself firmly. Very unattractive.

“Why do you think that you can lie in my bed and avoid my touch?” Sidney asks. “To wake in the night and be confronted with this dream, how would I not indulge?”

“Too much talk _and_ needy,” Evgeni says. “It’s worst, Sid.” Sidney tweaks Evgeni’s ass until he yelps. “Not worst,” Evgeni amends. “Best, yes, Sid is best. Now I’m sleep?”

“If you must,” Sidney says, dragging up a corner of the bed coverings to wipe them both clean. Evgeni rolls them, sprawling out atop him, and presses a loose kiss to his cheek before falling back asleep. Sidney stares at Evgeni’s face, almost too close for his eyes to properly focus, and wonders how he arrived to this moment. He lifts a hand to brush lightly against Evgeni’s cheek as he whispers, “I-- I do not know if you know this, but I cannot restrain myself from saying it. You have brought my life joy that I could not have predicted. I was prepared to despise my life as the emperor, but now I cannot deny my anticipation for the time that we shall spend and the success that we shall find together. I love you, Evgeni.”

“I love you too,” Evgeni rumbles, not as asleep as he appears, and Sidney’s heart stops before starting again, thrumming with delight. He falls asleep in that way, cradled in Evgeni’s embrace and smiling helplessly in his bliss.

They wake again upon Lady Luongo’s shriek as she arrives for the Ceremony of the Sun. “Peace,” Sidney groans. He must speak to Clemens Price about the time of the sun’s rising; it appears to be occurring today at an absolutely hellish hour, and Sidney firmly tells himself that this feeling has nothing to do with-- their extended nocturnal activities. “There is nothing to be yelling about.”

“But Your Imperial Majesty, your Humility--” she says, and then hesitates, clearly clever enough to notice the signs of said nocturnal activities.

“My Humility accompanies me all hours of the day; I cannot receive rest from it,” Sidney says, doing his best to fight down the inane laughter that threatens to break free at the scandalized look on the attendants’ faces. “For only a thorough understanding of my Humility will give me the sight I need to find my Valor as the Empire demands it. This is the nature of the balance, after all.”

“As Your Imperial Majesty says,” Ducissa Luongo mumbles with a bow before turning and directing slaves to fetch Evgeni’s personal items, including a fresh loincloth, tunic, and toga for the Emperor’s Humility, please, and be quick about it, girl. Evgeni and Sidney soak indulgently in the tubs of Sidney's bathing room until the slave returns, panting, arms full of clothes for Evgeni, and Sidney rises from his bath and snatches it greedily from her hands to dress Evgeni himself.

Evgeni attempts to return the favor, haughtily reaching to pull Sidney's loincloth from another attendant’s hands, but she grips tight, staring him down until he lets go, chastised. Sidney purses his lips to prevent his laughter, ceding to the ministrations of the three while Evgeni sulks by the door.

Just as they are finally prepared to face the day, said door flies open, Clemens Knight panting as she says, “Your Imperial Majesty, an urgent message from Valor Sedin--”

Sidney grins at Evgeni, and they follow Clemens Knight. He knows that in life, there are always surprises-- but now they are surprises faced not alone, as in the arena, but with the assistance of the Emperor’s Humility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Catullus 85, transl. Charles Martin.
> 
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	3. APPENDIX

**APPENDIX**

 

**GOVERNMENTAL SYSTEM**

Consists of the emperor and 3 balances below him: The Emperor's Balance, the Empire's Balance, and the Citizen's Balance.

The Emperor’s Balance: The Emperor’s Humility and The Emperor’s Valor

The Empire’s Balance: The Empire’s Clemency and The Empire’s Caution

The Citizens’ Balance: The Citizens’ Idealism and The Citizens’ Diligence

  


EMPEROR: Imperator X

Considered halfway between a man and a god-- however, there is no official state religion otherwise. Acts as the final authority on all matters within the Empire as well as the highest-ranked member of the military, though generally emperors choose a particular cause to focus on and leave the running of the rest of the empire to his council of state, formed of the Empire's Caution and the Empire's Clemency.

 

 

THE EMPEROR'S HUMILITY: The Humility/Humilis X

Slave captured and assigned to accompany the emperor at all times. Traditionally within a few years in age to the emperor (though not always) and always freshly captured. The "best" humilities are the most rebellious and angry, though the emperor is safeguarded through chaining the Humility to walls or other structures to keep them separated. It is more difficult to keep a Humility under control while the emperor is on the battlefield; generally the honor guard of the emperor will handle the Humility at all times in those cases.

 

THE EMPEROR'S VALOR: The Valor/Valor X

Highest military leader aside from the emperor. Generally a son of one of the Hundred Houses, also generally not the oldest son. Has the authority to act independently of emperor, though he is ultimately responsible to the emperor and can be punished for misuse of military or other perceived or actual betrayals.

 

 

THE EMPIRE'S CAUTION: Cautio X/Cautiones Xs

Ten lords of the Hundred Houses elevated to the council of state. When a lord is elevated, his title is changed from Dux to Cautio. Primary advisers to the emperor, along with the Clementes.

 

THE EMPIRE'S CLEMENCY: Clemens X/Clementes Xs

Five head priests of their orders, generally of the greater and lesser sects, elevated to the council of state. When a priest is elevated, his/her title is changed from Sanctus to Clemens.

 

 

THE CITIZENS’ IDEALISM

Arbiter X/Arbitri Xs

The justice system. Contains judges, interrogators, executioners, and the like. Any citizen in good standing can become an Arbiter.

 

THE CITIZENS’ DILIGENCE

Diligens X/Diligentes Xs

The public works system. Primarily concerned with roads, aqueducts, sewage, and public buildings. Any citizen in good standing can become a Diligens. Often, criminals and slaves are punished by being sent to labor in the diligentes' work gangs.

 

 

IMPERATOR CROSBY'S COUNCIL

Magnus Cautio Pascal Dupuis

Magnus Clemens Hilary Knight

Cautio Orpik

Cautio Maatta

Cautio Stamkos

Cautio Foglino

Cautio Perron

Cautio Kesler

Cautio Bergeron

Cautio Ference

Cautio Thornton

Clemens Price

Clemens Quick

Clemens Jokinen

Clemens Subban

  


**PANTHEON**

 

GREATER GODS - the four highest gods, consisting of the husband/wife pair of the sun and moon and their sons, earth and sea.

Solus: Sun god. Cult is led by Clemens Price.

Lunat: Moon goddess. Cult is led by Magnus Clemens Knight.

Aquare: Sea god. Cult is led by Clemens Jokinen.

Terrias: Earth god. Cult is led by Clemens Quick.

 

LESSER GODS - the four lower gods, consisting of two sets of twins, Paxius/Iras and Amoret/Lamenta

Paxius: God of both home and peace. Cult is led by Clemens Subban.

Iras: God of both war and anger. Cult is led by Sanctus Zetterberg.

Amoret: God of love. Cult is led by Sanctus Fleury.

Lamenta: Goddess of despair. Cult is led by Sanctus Wickenheiser.

 

LITTLE GODS - all other gods, dedicated to individual causes and not necessarily operating within a specific balance.

  
  
  
  


**Content warnings (includes minor spoilers):** The story exists within a society that normalizes slavery, including labor and sexual slavery, which is not questioned by any character. Labor slaves are very commonly mentioned and interacted with by free characters. There are a number of sex scenes involving a free character and a sex slave. The free character does not find any consent issues with this situation, and the various slave characters also do not express any consent issues.

 

The primary romance exists between a free character and a character that is enslaved to him. Due to societal mores, the free character does not have sex with the enslaved character, though he does contemplate it. The free character releases the enslaved character as reward for a particular action. They do have sex after the enslaved character is freed. Neither character finds any consent issues with the situation.

 

There is a scene detailing explicit violent retribution against traitors, including torture and execution.

 

There are elements of xenophobia; the prevailing culture views any other cultures under an umbrella of “barbarian” and aggressively works to conquer and eradicate those other cultures.

**Author's Note:**

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